yC-NRLF 


*b  5^7  ^ 


Greek   Wayfarers 

and 

Other  Poems 


By 

Edwina  Stanton  Babcock 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 
New  York  and  London 

Cbe    •fcntcfcerbocfcer    press 
1916 


Copyright,  1916 

BY 

EDWINA    STANTON   BABCOCK 


TTbe  fmfcfterbocfeer  QveBB,  Hew  Korft 


Go 
MARIANTHE 


350286 


The  author  believes  that  Greece  today — largely 
because  of  her  people 's  opportunity  in  America 
— knows  conscious  renewal  of  her  endless  spirit 
while  she  still  keeps  wonder  and  glory  for  all 
who  approach  her. 

Whatever  her  destiny,  her  natural  beauties 
have  not  betrayed  her,  and  through  her  glorious 
wildness  and  barrens  her  people  are  looking  out- 
ward and  forward.  Therefore,  if  these  verse- 
pictures  of  ancient  and  modern  Greek  life  bring 
to  those  familiar  with  Greece  any  refreshing 
memory  and  to  those  who  do  not  know  this 
beautiful  country  an  awakened  interest,  they 
will  justify  their  existence. 


CONTENTS 

PACK 

The  Amazons  at  Epidauros       ....  3 

The  Black  Sail 5 

Widowed  Andromache 6 

The  Sacred  Ship  from  Delos   ....  7 

The  Little  Shade 9 

The  Contrast — Volo 10 

"She  Had  Reverence" — Volo 11 

The  Glory — Good-Friday  Night,  Athens,  1914.  12 

Sunset  on  the  Acropolis          .         .         .  15 

The  Street  of  Shoes  (Athens)          ...  16 

On  the  Eleusinian  Way — Spring      .         .         .18 

In  the  Room  of  the  Funeral  Stel^e   (Athens 

Museum  ...            .        .          .         .  20 

"The  Seven-Stringed  Mountain  Lute"   .         .  22 

Greek  Wayfarers 23 

The  Threshing-Floor 30 

By  the  Wallachian  Tents— Thessaly       .        .  32 

The  Vale  of  Tempe 35 

The  Encounter 37 

Easter  Dance  at  Megara — First  Picture        .  40 

Easter  Dance  at  Megara — Second  Picture    .  41 

vii 


viii  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Peace,  1914 44 

Delphi               46 

The  Descent  from  Delphi        ....  49 
Twilight  on  Acro-Corinth        .        .        .        .51 

Romance ,  .        .        -53 

Night  in  Old  Corinth 55 

Aquamarine 57 

The  Shepherdess 60 

May-Day  in  Kalamata 63 

From  the  Arcadian  Gate  .        .        .        .66 

The  Abbess 68 

Greek  Farmers 70 

Song 73 

To  the  Olympian  Hermes  75 

Greece — 1915-1916 78 

The  Singing  Stones 80 

The  Old  Quest 83 

The  Gods  are  not  Gone,  but  Man  is  Blind    .  86 

The  Sea  of  Time 87 

On  the  Thoroughfare 89 

At  P^stum 90 

Phidias — a  Dramatic  Episode    ....  95 

Epilogue 118 


GREEK  WAYFARERS 


TO  THE  AMAZONS  AT  EPIDAUROS 

Ride,  Amazons,  ride! 

Militant  women,  careless  of  tunic  and  limb; 
Sinuous  torsos,  naked  legs  boy-like  and  pressed 
Close  to  the  warm  horse's  flank,  while  the  wild 

battle-hymn 
Fixes  the  eyes  with  the  far-reaching  look  of  the 

quest; 
Caring  no  more  for  the  places  of  mother  and 

bride; 
Ride,  Amazons,  ride! 

Ride,  Amazons,  ride! 

Arrow-swift  warriors  galloping  over  the  plain, 

Feverish,  urged  ever  onward  with  furious  rage; 

War-fretted  golden-hair  tangled  with  wind- 
fretted  mane; 

One-breasted  heroines,  vigorous,  quick  to  engage, 

Hot  with  the  vigor  of  pulsating,  vehement 
pride — 

Ride,  Amazons,  ride! 

Ride,  Amazons,  ride! 
Penthesilea  falls  by  Achilles'  drawn  bow. 
Fell  she,  the  Queen,  by  the  white  tents  of  bold 
Priam's  side? 

3 


4   TO  THE  AMAZONS  AT  EPIDAUROS 

Leaderless  women,  on  to  the  battle  ye  go — 
Plunging  on,  speeding  on;  galloping  Vengeance, 

astride 
Horses  that  feel  ye  victorious,  with  gods  allied — 
Ride,  Amazons,  ride! 

Ride,  Amazons,  ride! 

Fearless  stone-women,  ardent  and  flushed  with 

the  race, 
Gleaming  like  swords,   ruthless  of  body  and 

breast ; 
Nothing  shall  utterly  quell  ye,  nor  wholly  deface, 
Ye  shall  ride  onward  forever,  on  ultimate  quest. 
Spirited!    Splendid!    Time   shall   not  turn    ye 

aside. 
Ride,  Amazons,  ride! 


THE  BLACK  SAIL 

How  did  it  seem,  that  warm  thyme-scented  day 
When  emerald  figs  hung  swelling  in  the  dark 
Rose-nippled  glooms  of  laurel  and  of  bay, 
And  pomegranate  flowers  burned  their  spark 
Through  cypresses,  to  wait  'neath  temple  frieze, 
Scanning  the  hermless  highways  of  the  seas, 

Watching  for  one  white  canvas  far  away, 
And  when  the  morning  seemed  to  grow  so  late, 
Going,  amaracus  and  grapes  to  lay 
With  reeds  and  gums  on  Nike's  stylobate, 
Muttering: "  'Tis  the  Day— he  cannot  fail!" 
Then  on  a  sudden,  seeing — the  black  sail! 


WIDOWED  ANDROMACHE 

"Full  in  the  morning  sun  I  saw  him  first 
And  followed  him  through  meadows,   flower- 
massed, 
All  his  steep,  toilsome  ways,  I,  too,  traversed; 
After  his  battles  all  his  wounds  I  nursed, 
From  our  tent  gazing  to  the  cities  passed. 

"Then,  to  the  Trojan  walls,  where  battle  burned 
And  every  altar  had  a  bloody  rim, 
I  trod  his  ardent  footsteps,  though  I  yearned 
For  fields  so  free;  but  until  back  he  turned 
My  only  way  was  onward,  after  him. 

"The  summons  came  while  I  was  following,  true, 
Eager,  alert,  though  bruised  by  thorn  and  stone. 
Had  he  but  paused  to  tell  me,  ere  he  drew 
His  cloak  about  him,  what  I  was  to  do, 
I  would  have  kept  the  path,  yea,  all  alone! 

"But  he  was  silent,  answering  not  my  woe. 
He  muffled  him  against  my  prayers  and  tears. 
I  raise  my  arms,  hung  with  the  links  of  years, 
Hung  with  his  broken  chains,  my  right  to  show 
But — o'er  his  Unknown  Paths,  I  may  not  go!" 


THE  SACRED  SHIP  FROM  DELOS 
(The  Pilot  speaks) 

"Strange,  how  I  felt  the  homeward  voyage 

long; 
As  I  looked  back  to  Delos  o'er  our  wake, 
And   heard   the   priest's    song,   saw   our   sails 

out-shake 
Under  the  round  sun  hanging  like  a  gong 
Mid-heaven.     All  night  long  I  lay  on  deck 
Remembering  how  he  taught  us  in  the  Porch ; 
Yet,  the  black  waters'  phosphorescent  torch 
Gave  me  no  Sign,  no  word  in  white  foam-fleck. 

"When  we  passed  Sunion,  methought  I  saw 
Red  fires  burning  'mid  the  holy  white 
Of  sacred  columns;  but  the  Athenian  law 
I  did  not  know!    And  then,  the  reef's  long  jaw 
Foamed  at  us.     Through  the  hollow  night 
We  fared,  unwitting;  putting  forth  our  might; 
Speeding  with  oars  our  fated  way  upon, 
Till  the  white  Dawn  ensilvered  Phaleron. 

"At  the  Piraeus,  when  I  saw  the  throng, — 
Crito  and  Phaedo,  there,  to  meet  us, — I 
Gave  myself  no  portentous  reason  why, 
7 


8      THE  SACKED  SHIP  FROM  DEWS 

But  thought:  'He's  free!'     (Forsooth  he  did  no 

wrong) 
Then  I  remembered  lofty  words  he  said 
Of  freedom  as  its  dangerous  truth  he  read, — 
Great  Zeus !     The  cowards  might  as  well  indict 
Sea-circled  priest  or  mountain  anchorite! 

"Crito  it  was  who  told  me,  voice  all  raw 
With  grief,  and  on  my  shoulder  his  kind  hand : 
He    saw   me    flinch, — 'Tremblest?'    he    said, 

'Nay,  stand 
Here  in  the  shadow.     'Twas  thy  ship  they  saw, 
The  Sacred  ship  from  Delos,  ere  they  gave 
The  signal  for  the  hemlock — and  his  grave ! 
He  drank  the  cup:  the  while,   methought,  thy 

prow 
Would  have  steered  Hades-ward,  didst  thou  but 

know. ' 

V I  made  no  sign.     No  trite  word  left  my  lip. 
I  turned  from  Crito,  and  saw  Phaedo,  grave, 
Join  him.     Alone,  I  went  back  to  my  ship, 
Sails  furled  with  garlands  riding  harbor- wave; 
I  looked  at  her,  rehearsed  the  sacred  rite, 
And  purified  me;  set  my  torch  alight: 
'Socrates!     Master!'     I  sobbed  once;  set  then 
Aflame  the  Sacred  Ship  of  Ill-Omen!" 


THE  LITTLE  SHADE 

No  longer  that  grey  visage  fix, 

Charon, 
Asking  me  how  I  come  to  mix 
With  this  pale  boat-load  on  the  Styx, 

Charon. 

I  am  so  very  small  a  Shade, 

Charon, 
Holding  the  vase  my  father  made 
And  toys  of  silver  all  inlaid, 

Charon. 

Ferry  me  to  the  golden  trees, 

Charon, 
To  isles  of  childish  play  and  ease 
And  baths  of  dove-like  Pleiades, 

Charon. 

Ferry  me  to  the  azure  lands, 

Charon, 
Where  some  dead  mother  understands 
The  lifting  of  my  baby  hands, 

Charon. 


THE  CONTRAST 

"Neither  my  Magnesian  home,  nor  Demetrias,  my 
happy  country  mourned  for  me,  the  son  of  Sotimos;  nor 
did  my  mother  Soso  lament  me, — for  no  weakling  did  I 
march  against  my  foes." — From  a  painted  stele  at  Volo, 
Thessaly. 

'Tis  said,  when  young  Greeks  went  to  die, 
Greek  mothers  would  not  weep; 

And  steadfast  mien  and  tearless  eye 
Controlled  themselves  to  keep. 

Ah! — they  were  trained  to  bloody  deed; 

We — in  this  time  so  late 
That  life  seemed  gentle,  know  our  breed 

More  tragically  great ! 

Had  we  foreseen,  no  tear  would  fall. 

Now  mothers,  too,  could  smile  .  .  . 
Only,  we  proved  men  brave  .  .  .  and  dead 

In  such  a  little  while! 


10 


"SHE  HAD  REVERENCE" 

"O  Rhadamanthos,  or  O  Minos,  if  you  have  judged  any 
other  woman  as  of  surpassing  worth,  so  also  judge  this 
young  wife  of  Aristomachos  and  take  her  to  the  Islands  of 
the  Blessed.  For  she  had  reverence  for  the  gods  and  a 
sense  of  justice  sitting  in  council  with  her.  Talisos,  a 
Cretan  city,  reared  her  and  this  same  earth  enfolds  her 
dead;  thy  fate,  O  Archidfke!" — From  a  painted  stele  in  the 
Museum  at  Volo. 

The  dear  dead  women  Browning  drew 
Lean  forth  in  happy  watchfulness; 
With  them  Rossetti's  Starry-tress: 
And  Tennyson's  royal  maidens  press 
To  bring  you  to  their  Sacred  Few. 
Lovely  companions  wait  for  you, 
Dear  Archidike,  wife  divine, 
With  asphodels  your  locks  to  twine; 
Thus  crowning  with  celestial  vine 
That  noble  reverence  you  knew! 


ii 


THE  GLORY 

Good  Friday  Night,  Athens,  191 4. 

Myriad  candles  windy  flaring 
Over  faces  stilled  in  prayer; 
Silken  banners,  icon-bearing, 
Jewelled  vestments,  laces  rare — 
All  the  people  in  a  daze, 
Walking  in  a  candle-haze, 
Of  uplifted  pure  amaze. 
All  the  people  in  a  stream, 
Crowding  in  an  Easter  dream; 
While  choragic  song 
Pours  from  out  the  throng — 
"It  is  the  Glory— holy  holiday." 
So,  smiling,  good  Athenians  say. 

Priests  in  choir,  softly  singing, 
Carry  the  Pantokrator, 
While  the  city-bells  are  ringing 
In  their  wild  two-toned  uproar; 
All  the  people,  in  a  mass, 
With  the  purple-robed  Papas, 
Bearing  crosses  made  of  brass, 
12 


THE  GLORY  13 

Scarlet  cap,  and  fustanelle, 

Turkish  fez,  and  bead,  and  bell, 

While  choragic  song 

Leads  the  tranced  throng. 

"  It  is  the  Glory— holy  holiday," 

So,  smiling,  good  Athenians  say. 

Colored  lights,  and  dripping  torches, 
Burn  on  Lykabettos  crags; 
In  the  narrow  streets  and  porches 
Whole-sheep  roasting  never  flags. 
Bonfires  all  the  country  light, 
Up  to  dark  Hymettus'  height, 
Making  all  the  hillsides  bright. 
Still  the  surging  crowds  advance, 
Moving,  moving  in  a  trance; 
While  choragic  song 
Leads  the  tranced  throng. 
"It  is  the  Glory— holy  holiday," 
So,  smiling,  good  Athenians  say. 

In  their  wistful  majesty, 
See  them  waiting  for  a  sign, 
Of  religious  unity 
From  the  human  or  divine ; 
Faithful,  yearning,  poor,  uncouth, 
Pagan-born,  yet  craving  truth — 
Old  grey-heads  and  stripling  youth. 
All  the  people  in  a  stream, 
Holding  candles  in  a  dream. 


i4  THE  GLORY 

While  choragic  song 
Swells  throughout  the  throng. 
"It  is  the  Glory— holy  holiday," 
This,  smiling,  good  Athenians  say. 


SUNSET  ON  THE  ACROPOLIS 

If  ever  I  have  freed  me  of  all  time, 

Let  me  so  free  me  now,  that  I  have  brought  me 

Near   to   these   hill-top   temples,   which    have 

caught  me 
Up  to  their  soaring  heights  and  Vision  wrought 

me 
Of  things  serene,  and  stricken,  and  sublime. 

Let  me,  the  titled,  spurious  Christian,  face 
This  solemn  wistfulness  of  Pagan  yearning — 
This  aspiration  of  white  columns,  burning 
With  golden  fires,  their  pillars  deep  inurning 
The  tragic,  sunset  beauty  of  the  place. 

Let  me  stand  silent,  under  evening  skies, 
Watching  this  radiance  grown  cold  and  hoary; 
In  death-white,  black-stained  ruins,  read  the 

story 
The  Parthenon  tells  of  ancient  Grecian  glory, 
Reiterating  beauty  as  it  dies. 

Let  me  stand  silently  and  humbly,  there, 
Seeking    that    Unknown    God   Greeks   appre- 
hended; 
That,  as  the  temples  fade,  and  day  is  ended, 
My  own  hope  with  this  ancient  faith  be  blended, 
And  I  be  part  of  this  eternal  prayer! 


»S 


THE  STREET  OF  SHOES 

(Athens) 

Now,  while  the  Bulgars  creep  in  stealthy. crews 
To  Macedonian  borders,  do  they  stay 
In  Athens  as  they  were  one  April  day — 
The  busy  cobblers  in  ''The  Street  of  Shoes"? 

I  wonder :  for  the  faces  leaning  there, 
Had  Oriental  heat,  the  hands  that  sewed 
Had  look  of  readiness;  some  skillful  code 
The  hammers  rapped  on  leather-scented  air. 

The  old  shoemakers,  hung  about  with  hide 
In  cave-like  booths,  with  beads  and  fringe  adrip, 
Muttered  their  restless  words  beneath  the  clip 
Of  shoe-laces,  or  hammered,  sombre-eyed; 

Red-capped,  white-bearded,  keen  for  petty  strife, 
They  hammered  and  they  stitched ;  while,  might 

and  main 
Down  their  small,  narrow,  red-morocco  lane, 
They  cut  the  scarlet  shoes  with  gleaming  knife. 

How  would  it  go,  if  mad  Bulgarian  hordes 
Invaded  here  with  pillage  and  abuse? 
I  like  to  think  that  in  the  Street  of  Shoes 
Those  old,  gnarled  hands  would  fiercely  leap  to 
swords ! 

x6 


THE  STREET  OF  SHOES  17 

I  love  to  think  how  fiery  faces  there 
Would  light  like  lurid  skies  before  the  storm, 
And  that  Athenian  shoemakers  would  swarm 
To  guard  the  city  with  ferocious  care. 

Then,  if  the  foe  to  trample  Athens  choose, 

I  pity  them  if  those  Greek  cobblers  still 

Stick  to  their  lasts.     These  would  not  wait  to 

spill 
A  brighter  red  than  red-morocco  shoes! 

Bulgars  would  know  how  nimble  fingers  use 
Flayed  skin  to  keep  the  needles  very  bright ; 
They  would  learn  much  before  they  took  their 

flight 
Forever  from  the  valiant  Street  of  Shoes! 


ON  THE  ELEUSINIAN  WAY— SPRING 

Hush  I    Walk  slowly ; 

All  this  winding  road  is  holy; 

Place  your  votive  image  in  a  niche 

By  Pass  of  Daphne,  where  rocks  forward  pitch. 

Now,  sit  lowly — 

Under  dim  firs  that  cool  the  dust-white  way 

Curving  from  Athens  to  Eleusis  Bay. 

Soft!    Speak  lightly! 

See'st  this  myriad  Concourse?  all  the  sprightly 

Luminous  Mystae?     Naked  flower  forms 

Dancing  in  close  commingled  color-swarms 

So  brightly? 

Follow  them  in  their  green-hot  Maenad  flame, 

Their  sweet  mysterious  rapture  of  no  name. 

Watch !    Far-seeing 
Demeter's  yellow  torches  fitful  fleeing. 
And  seed  processions  moving  towards  the  shrine 
Where  motion,  moisture,  act  in  soft  sunshine; 
And  being 

Earth-taught,  flower-figures  of  desire 
Sway  toward  white  Oreads  quick  with  fire. 
18 


ON  THE  ELEUSINIAN  WAY— SPRING  19 

Take,  unceasing 

Joy  of  powers  these  Mystae  are  releasing 
Eternal,  they,  who  seem  so  lovely-brief. 
Soft  luminous  shapes  of  petal  and  of  leaf 
Increasing, 

They  sweep  across  Semele's  ancient  fields 
Handing    the    torch    the    calm    Earth-mother 
yields. 

Yea — the  senses 

Have  their  holy  truths  and  recompenses 

Sweetly  simple  may  their  teachings  be 

"Wine  flashing  clusters  from  a  sacred  tree"; 

Defences 

From  all  our  sorry  wisdoms  have  these  flowers 

Who  teach  deep  truths  with  Dionysiac  powers ! 


IN  THE  ROOM  OF  THE  FUNERAL  STEL^ 

(Athens  Museum) 

O'er  all  the  world  I  wandered  with  my  grief, 
My  human  grief,  that  would  not  be  forgot, 
Finding  no  face,  no  word,  nor  any  spot 
Where  haunted  heart  and  brain  could  find  relief. 

Until  the  morning  I  unwitting  stept 
Into  the  stelae-halls  and  the  great  peace 
Of  the  Greek  sorrow  over  Life's  surcease 
Enveloped  me,  even  in  woe  inept. 

Here,  marble  love  in  simple  human  sense 
To  nearest  friend  gives  earthly  treasure  up, 
A  matron  handing  maid  a  box  or  cup ; 
A  man  from  dog  and  slave  turning  him  hence; 

A  soldier  springing  out  into  the  dark; 
A  wife  slow  fading  in  her  husband's  arms; 
The  inexorable  Fact,  its  vague  alarms 
And  Love  grown  suddenly  aloof  and  stark! 

Yet  no  breast-beating  here,  nor  frantic  woe, 
Nor  bitter  tears,  nor  loud  outcry  of  pain. 
Only  the  question:  "Will  they  live  again? 
Go  they  forever  from  us,  when  they  go?" 

20 


THE  ROOM  OF  THE  FUNERAL  STELA  21 

Majestic  sorrowers  the  figures  stand, 
Absorbed  in  contemplation  of  One  Thing  .  .  . 
No  promises,  nor  priestly  counselling, 
Only  the  longing  eyes  and  clasping  hand ! 

Down  the  long  halls  I  wandered;  Athens'  Spring 
Radiant  without,  with  almonds'  rosy  spray, 
And  violets  crowding  on  the  hills.     That  day 
My  dead  heart  stirred  to  marble  comforting! 

For  the  Greeks  knew  !     Death  is  the  only  thing 
That  keeps  its  dignity.     So  Death  they  met 
Ready  to  pay  to  him  a  subject's  debt; 
Going  out  awe-struck  as  to  meet  a  King. 

The  Greeks  knew  I  nothing  any  more  can  heal 
The  heart  Death  once  despoils  of  sorrowing. 
With  proud  simplicity  they  felt  the  sting, 
Then  wore  the  mystery  like  sacred  seal ! 

Calm-eyed,    controlled,    those    marble    figures 

gaze 
Into  the  depths  no  mortal  eyes  have  known, 
Then,  Grecian  head  thrown  back,  the  world  is 

shown 
Sorrow's  transfigured  face,  immortal  ways ! 


"THE    SEVEN-STRINGED    MOUNTAIN 
LUTE" 

"Homer,  Sappho,  Anacreon,  Pindar,  ^Eschylus,  Sopho- 
cles, Euripides,  the  very  names  are  a  song." — M.  C.  M. 

I  knew,  no  matter  how  they  plucked  at  me 
Like  golden  fingers — all  those  cadenced  names — 
That  never  could  I  answer;  for  the  power 
Of  their  majestic  harmonies  was  perfect  flower. 
No  greater  song,  nor  lovelier  verse  could  be 
Unless  Greece  lived  another  golden  hour. 
I  tried  to  echo  them.     I  vainly  sought 
Timid  expression  of  their  rhythmic  fire; 
My  melodies  with  halting  effort  caught 
Faintly  their  classic  motive  and  desire. 
Yet,  while  I  failed,  a  miracle  was  wrought, 
Themselves   did   sing!    Thus,   humble,    I'  was 

taught 
These  names  that  are  the  plectrum  and  the  lyre. 


22 


GREEK  WAYFARERS 

I 

Around  the  Hellenic  coast  the  dark-blue  bands 
Of  circling  waters,  like  a  loin-cloth,  wind 
The  stalwart  nakedness  of  seaward  lands; 
Bronze  crag,  and  beach,  and  rock  and  terrace 

bind 
As  foreground  for  the  somber  swelling  tent 
Of  purple  mountain.     On  the  morning  sky 
Pale  azure  summits,  with  their  sides  snow-rent, 
Loom  in  the  distance;  slowly,  solemnly, 
The  coasts  of  Greece  define;  their  misty  chains 
Backed  by  soft  clouds  and  silver  sky-moraines. 
While  we  sail  on,  reverent  vision-sharers, 
To  read  the  romance  of  the  Greek  Wayfarers! 


II 


Those  serrate  ridges  toward  the  southward  brew 
Grape-colored  mist,   snow-frothed;  the  foamy 

crest 
Of  Mount  Taygetos  bursts  on  the  blue 
Peloponnesian  pinnacles,  repressed 
23 


24  GREEK  WAYFARERS 

Back  of  fair  bays  and  coasts.     Rich  lands    of 

corn, 
' '  Slopes  that  the  Spartans  loved,"  the  Headlands 

Three 
Hide  from  the  eye;  but  nearer  shores  forlorn 
Wounded  and  Ancient,  scarred  of  rock  and  tree 
Looming  beyond  the  starry-clustered  Isles, 
Where  fire-blue  waters  surge  on  circled  strand, 
Lead    to    far  cliffs,  which  once  were  beacon- 
bearers 
In  early  wars,  for  early  Greek  Wayfarers. 


Ill 


Each  azure-rippled,  rock-encrusted  beach 
Tells  of  the  dusky,  strong  Phoenician  sails 
That  came  from  Sidon,  passed  the  stormy  reach, 
And    touched  at  islands,  dark  as  wave-tossed 

bales 
Left  floating  in  the  murex-stained  sea 
Where  restless  fishers,  full  of  dawning  schemes 
Cruised  in  the  tunny  waters ;  sailing  free, 
Drawn  by  the  Tyrian  Purple  to  new  dreams. 
Adventurers,  traders,  heard  the  sailor-boasts 
Of  civilized  beginnings  on  the  coasts, 
And  in  black  vessels  brought  the  new   Space- 

Darers 
Whose  reckless  sea-paths  made  them    Greek 

Wayfarers! 


GREEK  WA  YFARERS  25 

IV 

Thus  rovers  came,   and  dark-skinned  traders 

planned 
New  villages  by  fertile  pasture  lures 
In  lonely  valleys;  by  succeeding  hands 
Minoan  vases,  Mycenean  ewers 
Were  fashioned;  then  the  tribes  fought  hill  by 

hill, 
And  coast  by  coast,  for  wealth,    till    Knossos* 

tombs 
And  Tiryns*  palaces  had  dawning  skill 
Of  goldsmith  and  of  craftsman  in  their  glooms. 
The  legends  grew,  the  wooden  statues  raised 
New,  mystic  Cults.    Where  rams  and  young  kids 

grazed 
Distaffs  sprang  up,  and  primitive  sheep-shearers 
Brought  snowy  fleece  to  clothe  the  Greek  Way- 
farers. 


Delphi,  Eleusis,  guided  human  awe 
By  mystic  voices  and  by  legend  thrill ; 
Then,  one  by  one,  came  templed  porch  and  floor 
Gleaming  by  sea  or  on  some  fir-crowned  hill. 
Far  back  in  forest,  or  on  Islands,  rose 
Transcendent  loveliness  of  chiselled  stone, 
And  in  the  secret  shrine  Artemis  chose 
To  hear,  or  not  to  hear,  the  victim's  moan. 


26  GREEK  WAYFARERS 

The  entrails  burned;  worshippers  at  the  feet 
Of  Gold-Apollo  knew  the  saving-sweet 
Comfort  of  God-in-life,  evolved  from  terrors 
Of  Nature-forces  by  the  Greek  Wayfarers. 


VI 


And  then  the  restless  ichor  in  Greek  veins 
Created  dreams  of  new  posterity, 
And  mother-cities  planning  greater  gains 
Sent  emigrants  exploring  on  the  sea. 
Before  Ionians,  strange  Cohans  went. 
To  Chalcedon  came  "cekist"  altar-fire; 
Silver,  and  iron,  and  flax,  for  commerce  sent 
Dorians  roving  with  renewed  desire; 
And  coins  and  woolens,  pottery  and  dyes, 
Marked  with  age-seal  each  eager  new  emprise; 
And  shrines  and  temples  followed  all  the  eras 
Of  settled  colonies  of  Greek  Wayfarers. 


VII 


To  vale  and  coppice,  every  forest  place, 
Came  note  of  Syrinx  and  the  sound  of  flutes; 
And  golden  ball  and  pomegranate  trace 
On  priestly  robes ;  and  'mid  the  cool  volutes 
Were  public  treasures  heaped;  the  Councils  met: 
Athens  and  Corinth  grew  to  haughty  names, 
And  glorious  youths  and  lovely  boys  were  set 
To  daring  deeds  at  the  Olympic  Games. 


GREEK  WAYFARERS  27 

By  mountain  paths  and  solitudes  they  trod, 
They  set  the  votive  offerings  to  their  god 
Invoking  glory — happy  olive-wearers — 
Consciously  beautiful,  as  Greek  Wayfarers. 

VIII 

Then  sculptors  wrought  and  painters  ground  the 

crude 
Colors,  and  potters  found  the  yellowish   glaze; 
And  out  of  Cretan  bowls  and  bottles  rude 
Came  polychrome  and  monographic  vase. 
The  echoing,  marble  theatres  curved  in  hills, 
Where  master-voices,  with  dramatic  art, 
Chorused  all  joys  and  passions,  and  all  ills — 
And  touched  with  deep  emotion  every  heart, 
Till  poet-minds  flowered  to  richer  truth; 
Forsaking  earlier  thoughts  and  laws  uncouth, 
With  nobler  aim  to  be  the  way-preparers 
Of  philosophic  thought  for  Greek  Wayfarers. 

IX 

While  every  river  mothered  daughters  fair, 
And  clouds  conceived,  and  ancient  trees  enslaved 
Satyr  and  hama-dryad  .  .  .  then  the  flare 
Of  the  Greek  torch  too  happy-high  was  waved — 
The  jealous  East  was  plotting,  Persians  lay 
In  plundering  splendor,  with  their  blazing  hosts, 
Till  Marathon  and  grim  Thermoyplae.  .  .  . 
Then,  envious  cities,  roused  at  Athens'  boasts 


28  GREEK  WAYFARERS 

Of  glittering  power,  crushed  the  Golden  Age. 
Under  the  Spartan  and  Boeotian  rage; 
"Leagues"  and  sea-struggles,  Macedonian  ter- 
rors, 
Dragged  to  a  desperate  pass  the  Greek  Wayfarers. 


Yet  after  Byzantine  and  Ottoman 
Settled  despotic  heel  upon  the  land, 
No  cruel  Venetian  yoke  nor  Turkish  ban 
Forced  the  brave  Greeks'  unconquerable  stand. 
Outsiders  saw  the  Cause  inviolate, 
Byron's  hot  poet's  heart  and  cosmic  brain 
Urged  on  the  struggle,  to  once  more  create 
An  independent  Greece,  unchained  again. 
The  whole  world  watched  the  piteous  battle 

fought, 
And  hailed  small  triumphs,  passionately  bought 
With  faith,  until,  from  wild,  despairing  errors, 
The  struggling  Greeks  once  more  were   Greek 

Wayfarers. 


XI 


Now  on  Greek  highways,  where  the  wagons  roll, 
Piled  high  with  wineskins,  or  with  bags  of  flour, 
Past  schools  and  churches  and  the  fountain  bowl, 
New  hope  springs  in  the  peasants  hour  by  hour. 


GREEK  WAYFARERS  29 

Greeks  know  that  through  their  sordid  modern 

strife 
They  walk  in  poetry,  believing  well 
They  are  the  children  of  enchanted  life, 
That  sends  them  forward  messages  to  tell 
Of  Greek  restraint  and  hospitality, 
Greek  love  of  beauty,  and  Greek  dignity, 
Making  them,  in  their  toil,  devoted  carers 
For  new  and  better  goals  for  Greek  Wayfarers. 


XII 


What  are  the  goals  to  be,  and  what  the  gain  ? 

As  soldiers  camp  in  valley  and  on  hill 

Do  Spartan  youths  leap  on  the  dusty  plain? 

Does  spirit  of  Leonidas  keep  still 

One  death-defying  purpose?    Will  the  blood 

Leap  of  a  sudden  out  of  the  Soros, 

And  Marathon  with  bright  phalanxes  flood? 

Do  all  Greeks  bear  the  title  agathos  ? 

Ah,  Greece!    Ah,  Greece!  dare  for  the  precious 

Past, 
And  throw  your  lot  with  gallant  men  that  cast 
Eternal  die,  to  be  the  Spirit-Bearers 
For  all  the  world  and  all  the  Greek  Wayfarers. 


THE  THRESHING-FLOOR 

"This  mess  of  hard-kneaded  barley-bread  and  a  libation 
mixed  in  a  little  cup." — Greek  Anthology. 

There's  a  white  stone-paven  floor 

Set  in  a  jade-green  field 

Where  the  spiked  acacias  yield 

A  shadow,  and  the  four 

Earthen  pots  on  a  round  well-wheel 

Come  up  drippingly  full  and  spill 

Where  the  white  horse  runs  his  circle  round 

Drawing  water  for  garden  ground. 

The  white  foundation  here 

Has  ne'er  held  temple-plinth, 

But  mint  and  terebinth 

Perfume  is  in  the  air. 

And  here,  at  the  harvest-time  the  wains 

Rattle  along  the  sunburnt  plains, 

And  the  peasant's  arms  are  bared  to  thresh 

Food  from  the  golden  barley  mesh. 

Before  the  morning's  long 
Comes  drowsy,  sliding  snatch 
Of  primitive  threshing-song; 
Down  in  the  garden  patch 
30 


THE  THRESHING-FLOOR  ji 

The  murmurous  sleepy  drone  of  bees 
Blends  with  the  stir  of  the  poplar-trees, 
And  the  rustle  of  bundled  grain 
Tossed  from  the  wagon  train. 

Ah!  the  Mavrodaphne  wine 
Is  fruity  and  sweet  to  taste, 
And  the  oranges  are  fine 
And  the  blocked  Loukoumi  paste. 
But  I  long  for  a  crust  of  peasant  bread 
Eaten  with  honey  from  Parnes'  head, 
And  I  hunger  the  more  and  more 
At  sight  of  the  threshing-floor! 


BY  THE  WALLACHIAN  TENTS 

THE   BOY 

Over  dripping  washing-trough 
Bends  my  mother  busy  drubbing, 
Father's  fustanella  rubbing 
With  the  dark  soap,  smeary — rough. 
There  my  goats  go,  wild  careering 
From  the  sound  of  wagons,  nearing. 
Oootz— Ella— Whooff— ■ ! 
Out  of  there,  you  silly  kid, 
By  the  old  soup-kettle  hid. 

THE  MOTHER 

That  boy,  lying  in  the  thyme, 
Sheepskinned  loafer  in  the  grasses, 
He  is  carelessness  sublime, 
Sunned  in  yellow  iris  masses. 
Thinks  he  of  the  dead  men  sleeping 
Far  away  from  flocks  he's  keeping, 
Piled  in  bloody  mountain-passes? 
With  the  brutal  guns  again 
Booming :  ' '  Give  us  men !     More  men ! ] 
32 


BY  THE  WALLA  CHI  AN  TENTS      33 

THE   BOY 

Baby  hanging  from  the  tree, 

Peeps  from  out  his  bright  bag-hollows, 

While  the  white  dog  rolls  and  wallows 

Bitten  by  an  angry  bee. 

Forth  for  those  sheep  he  must  sally, 

Where  they  by  the  cold  brook  dally. 

Oootz— Ella— Deee  !— 

Now  the  fools,  in  silly  mass, 

Scamper  toward  the  mountain-pass. 

THE   MOTHER 


Far  off,  on  the  dusty  plain, 

Reels  my  drunk  Wallachian, 

Coming  up  from  town  again. 

Drinking  in  the  village  khan, 

All  our  Balkan  coin  he's  spending; 

As  his  stupid  way  he's  wending 

I  the  future  scan. 

Ugh !     I  hear  those  guns  again 

Surly — growling :  ' '  Men !     More  men ! 


>» 


THE   BOY 


Swift  the  smooth  Peneios  flows 
Smoky-white  to  sea's  blue  gleaming. 
Where  the  battleships  are  steaming 
Ready  for  their  foes, 


34      BY  THE  WALLACHIAN  TENTS 

I  should  like  to  fight  and  bear  me 
Fiercely.     Nothing  there  would  scare  me. 
Ella— Ella— Pros! 

With  this  high-swung  shepherd-stick 
That  old  bucking  ram  I'll  hit! 

THE  MOTHER 

St.  Spiridion !     He  beats 
That  old  ram  as  't  were  his  woman  1 
What  a  fine,  big,  brawny  human 
Have  I  suckled  at  these  teats! 
Ah !     I  have  my  mother-reasons 
To  distrust  Rumanian  treasons, 
When  our  Council  meets. 
Bah!  those  dirty  guns  again 
Booming : ' '  Give  us  men !     More  men !' ' 

When  my  man  comes,  o'er  and  o'er 

I  will  bluster — Not  will  hunger 

Nor  your  beatings  make  me  monger 

Sons  to  angry  war. 

That  brown  boy,  in  sunshine  dreaming, 

I'll  not  feed  him  to  the  teeming 

Snorting  cannon-maw! 

Move  we  now  our  tents  again, 

Far  from  guns  that  roar : ' '  More  men ! " 


THE  VALE  OF  TEMPE 

The  river  that  winds  through  the  Vale  of  Tempe* 
is  white, . 
Smokily  white,  like  water  opaque  with  a  charm, 
Olympus  knows  why.     He  towers  there,  frostily 
bright, 
And  Ossa  forth  stretches  a  slaty,  precipice 
arm, — 
Deepening    silvery    pools    into    green-clouded 
light- 
So  that  Tempe*  is  hidden  and  secret  and  free 
from  alarm. 

But  the  green  Vale  of  Tempe*  leads  forth  to  the 
stir  of  the  Sea 
Where  the  battleships  growl  and  where  Salonica 
is  held 
Fast  in  the  grip  of  the  Powers,  who  fight  for  the 
key 
Unlocking  the  Border-doors;  if  Tempe*  were 
shelled, 
Then  the  white  Peneios,  veiled  as  for  bridal, 
would  be 
Scarlet  with  blood  of  soldiers,  like  forests  felled. 
35 


36  THE  VALE  OF  TEMPE 

Pindar,  Spenser,  Shelley,  Byron, — ye  bards — 
Lyric-tongued  all!    What  if  the  fair  Tempe" 
glade, 
Where  delicate  flowers  gleam  on  the   virginal 
swards 
And  the  cuckoo  pipes  to  the  shy-footed  dryad- 
maid 
And  the  trees  hide  Daphne, — What  if  the  horror- 
mad  hordes 
Trample  this  Pastoral,  where  old  Mythology 
stayed? 

They  answer  not  and  the  soft  Peneios  is  veiled, 
'Mid  the  joy  of  the  fauns  and  flowers  and  river- 
born  shade. 
But  an  old  Belief  in  the  smoky-white  water  is 
trailed — 
Who  knows  but  Apollo,  fierce  for  his  pagan 
glade — 
Will  hasten,  haughtily,  in  shining    sun-armor 
mailed, 
And  carry  it  off  to  the  Greek  gods'  ambuscade  ? 


THE  ENCOUNTER 

*T  was  there  in  Tempe*  that  he  lay 
Under  a  plane-tree,  fast  asleep, 

His  pipes  far-flung.— Pan !  growing  gray; 

Lines  on  his  mocking  face;  his  gay 
Scuffling  hoofs  forgot  to  leap. 

The  river  pleaded,  "Wake  the  God"; 

The  birds  sat  by  with  soft  aside; 
Up  from  the  delicate  spring-sod 
I  saw  the  eager  flowers  nod, 

And  little  leaves  my  language  tried. 

I  woke  Pan.     Bore  the  deep  earth-gaze 

On  my  false  being,  false  to  life 
By  all  the  dreary  modern  ways: 
"Pan,"  I  dared  whisper— " long  the  days- 
One  needs  thy  music  in  the  Strife' 

"Full  many  a  spring  when  poppies  fired 
This  brook-side,  did  I  play  for  you." 

Pan  answered  me:  "My  music  tired, 

For  colder  music  you  desired ; 
So  be  it — I  am  weary;  too!" 
37 


38  THE  ENCOUNTER 

"Forgive  me  for  my  sad  un worth, 
Oh,  patient  Pan,"  I  murmured  low. 

"I  know  that  I  have  failed  the  earth; 

Only,  perhaps,  by  spirit-birth, 

My  children  thy  wild  pipes  will  know." 

Pan  frowned:  "Nay,  all  the  world  doth  rave; 

Against  the  Pipe;  they  rant,  like  you! 
Go,  people  my  deserted  cave 
With  theories  and  books.     Zeus  save 

That  I  should  hinder  what  you  do!" 

Far  back  in  Tempe's  leafy  glade 

The  dappled  sunshine  filtered  through, 

And  dewdrops  opalled  every  blade. 

I  was  not  of  the  god  afraid. — 
And  still  there  was  a  thing  to  do. 

"Ah,  Pan,  dear  Pari,"  I  softly  cried, 
"Who  is  it  that  shall  save  but  thee? 

Thy  music,  god,  the  whole  world  wide, 

Is  listened  for  on  country-side, 
And  every  dreamer  bows  the  knee ! 

"By  musky  grapes  in  rosy  hands, 

And  all  the  golden  fruits  that  glow, 
A  happy  lover  understands 
Thy  fluting,  hearts  in  sober  lands 

Languish  till  they  thy  clear  pipe  know! 


THE  ENCOUNTER  39 

"Ah,  Pan— play  on!    Forgive  the  souls 
Whom  knowledge  cheats  of  love;  forgive 

That  life  exacts  its  bitter  tolls 

And  leads  to  artificial  goals. 

Oh!  Play!  that  we  may  surelier  live!" 

I  bent,  I  touched  the  shaggy  hoof, 

The  horns;  I  looked  into  the  eyes 
Clear  as  rock  pools,  and  yet  aloof 
Like  wild  bird's,  then  I  saw  the  proof 
That  Pan  is  kind  beyond  surmise. 

Tears!     In  Pan's  eyes! — I  sprang  away 

(Not  even  Pan  should  see  me  weep) — 
Yet  on  through  Tempe\  all  that  day 
I  heard  wild,  happy  piping. — Yea, 
I  wakened  Pan ! — He's  not  asleep ! 


EASTER  DANCE  AT  MEGARA 

FIRST  PICTURE 

Green  lizards  flash  along  the  walls 
Curd- white  against  the  fire-blue  bay; 
The  pepper-trees'  fern  branches  sway 
Their  delicate,  hot,  scarlet  balls. 

The  linked  maidens  wreathe  the  square, 
Blazing  with  festal  coinage,  hung 
On  brown  necks;  yellow  kerchiefs,  flung 
O'er  dusky,  long,  twin  braids  of  hair. 

The  Attic  maids,  with  Attic  mirth 
Subdued  and  shy,  from  hill  and  plain, 
On  Easter  holiday,  at  birth 
Of  spring,  weave  altar-paced  chain. 

And  sing  a  song,  to  shepherd  flute, 
Its  shifting,  three-toned  lilt  is  cold, 
Only — it  is  so  very  old, 
The  wonder  is  it  is  not  mute. 

But  so,  they  say,  did  maidens  dance 
In  dim  Eleusis,  near  the  shrine. 
And  that  is  why  these  dark  eyes  shine 
With  classic-cultured  ignorance. 
40 


EASTER  DANCE  AT  MEGARA        41 

And  that  is  why,  from  near  and  far, 
Greek  peasants  come  with  stately  pride, 
They  know  that  Past  from  which  they  glide 
Into  the  dance  at  Megara! 

SECOND   PICTURE 

In  his  long  smock,  and  farmer's  cotton  cap, 

Demetri  dances. 

The  old  crones  smile,  the  little  children  clap, 

The  young  girls'  glances 

Follow  him,  tall  and  grave,  and  deep  of  eye, 

Marvelling  at  him,  yet  aloof  and  shy; 

His  fellow-dancers  jostle  roughly  by 

With  rude  askances. 

The  piper  plays  his  reediest,  shrillest  tune, 

And  at  his  leisure 

Demetri,  as  though  pacing  in  a  rune, 

Treads  out  a  measure. 

The    elders  laugh:    "Dance    there,    fantastic 

fellow ! 
Tread  down  the  grapes,  while  harvest  moon  is 

mellow, 
Give  thy  feet  wings,  fly  o'er  the  sunset  billow 
At  thy  good  pleasure!" 

The  little  glasses  of  brown  resin-wine 

Are  quaffed;  beads  slipping 

Through  the  Greek  fingers,  slender,  brown,  and 

fine, 
Accent  his  skipping. 


42       EASTER  DANCE  AT  MEGARA 

They  nudge,  to  see  his  hand  curve  on  his  shoul- 
der, 

They  marvel  as  his  dark  eyes  burn  and  smoul- 
der, 

And  note  his  step  less  vague,  his  bearing  bolder, 

And  go  on  sipping. 

Around  him  dance  the  peasants,  pacing  slow 

With  rhythmic  swinging, 

But  in  and  out  he  threads  their  simple  show 

'Midst  childish  singing. 

Reels  past  old  bearded  Greeks,  their  grave  tales 
weaving, 

And  fierce  Wallachians  come  for  Easter  thiev- 
ing; 

Albanian  women  with  bold  bosoms  heaving 

To  children  clinging. 

Spell-bound,  all  watch  him  reel,  and  swerve,  and 
bend; 

His  dizzy  spinning 

Dazzles  their  eyes.  Word  goes  from  friend  to 
friend : 

* '  He  is  beginning  |M 

For  now  with  somber  eyes,  unveiled  and  burn- 
ing, 

From  peasant  dance  they  see  Demetri  turning 

To  an  old  trance  of  rapturous  discerning — 

Loud  plaudits  winning. 


EASTER  DANCE  AT  MEGARA       43 

The  sun  shines  paler  on  the  kerchief's  gold, 

The  church-bell's  tolling; 

The  sea  grows  purple,  and  the  distance  cold, 

With  dark  waves  rolling. 

The  long  lines  break,  the  black-haired  maidens 

wrangle; 
With  exclamation  all  the  dusty  tangle 
Comes  to  a  halt,  'mid  glint  of  peasant  spangle 
And  soft  song  trolling. 

But  tall  Demetri  lost  in  dreaming  pace 

In  solemn  swaying, 

Keeps  on  alone,  with  tense  and  mystic  face 

As  he  were  praying. 

With  hand  upraised,  as  holding  the  caduceus, 

He  looks  away  to  old  far-off  Eleusis, 

Devising  Dionysiac  curves  and  nooses, 

Old  Laws  obeying. 

Why,  in  his  face  that  mystic  peering  gaze 

Like  a  faun,  waiting? 

Why  does  he  pace  his  lonely,  occult  ways 

His  eyes  dilating? 

' '  Demetri ! "     "  Mitchu  I ' '  tease  the  girls.     Their 

screaming 
He  does  not  hear,  lost  in  far  other  seeming, 
In  strange   dance-spell,   in   old   blood-tutored 

dreaming, 
Old  rhythms  creating. 


PEACE,  1914 

Why  do  the  women  walk  so  free  and  strong 

In  Thessaly? 
It  is  because  the  Turks  wreak  no  more  wrong; 
The  Balkans  ended,  sunburnt  soldiers  throng, 

In  Thessaly. 

Why  do  the  old  monks  pray  so  hard  for  rain 

In  Thessaly? 
It  is  because  the  mountain  slopes  again 
Roll  in  green  terraces  of  silver  grain, 

In  Thessaly. 

Why  does  the  shepherd  wear  a  broidered  shirt 

In  Thessaly? 
Because  'tis  peace;  clean  is  the  goat-herd's  skirt, 
The  women  spin;  the  needles  are  alert, 

In  Thessaly. 

And  why  the  young  kids,  white  as  snowy  curds, 

In  Thessaly? 
The  farmers  are  successful  with  their  herds ; 
The  highway's  loud   with   guttural   teamster- 
words, 

In  Thessaly. 
44 


PEACE,  1 914  45 

Why  are  the  threshing-floors  so  thickly  set 

In  Thessaly? 
Because,  when  harvest  comes,  and  youth  is  met, 
Comes  the  old  will  of  Nature,  sturdy  yet, 

In  Thessaly. 

And  these  deserted  hovels  that  we  see 

In  Thessaly, 
Where  the  Peneios  winds  about  the  tree? 
The  villagers  have  gone  across  the  sea 

From  Thessaly. 

And  this  trim  town  of  plaster  and  of  thatch 

In  Thessaly? 
America  hangs  fortune  on  the  latch, 
Our  sons  come  back,  then  blooms  the  garden 
patch, 

In  Thessaly ! 

Then,  this  is  no  decadent  race  I  see 

In  Thessaly? 
Oh,  stranger,  who  can  tell?    Hard  things  must 

be. 
Only,  the  "Greeks  were  Greeks,"  and  Greeks 
are  we 

In  Thessaly. 


DELPHI 

Matrixed  'mid  purple  mountain  steeps, 
An  ancient  Grecian  city  sleeps. 
Where  rock-hewn  fountains  spill 
Down  scarlet-poppied  hill ; 
Long  time  ago  its  temples  fair 
Rose,  Doric-columned,  on  the  air, 
And  voices  told  of  riddles  strange 
That  echoed  down  the  mountain  range ; 
And  men  and  cities  brought  their  all 
To  Delphi  and  the  priestess'  thrall. 
While  in  the  mountain-pass  a  pipe 
Played  on  and  on  and  on — 
A  pipe  played  on. 

Now  up  the  aisles  of  olive-trees 
Come  wistful  souls  from  over-seas, 
From  the  Itean  shore, 
Past  rose-hung  cottage  door, 
And  in  the  sacred  fount  they  dip, 
Or  tell  the  lore  with  alien  lip ; 
Or,  dreaming,  scan  far  snow-crowned  heights, 
Lit,  as  of  old,  with  pagan  lights. 
46 


DELPHI  47 

While  through  the  thyme,  'mid  rock  and  pool, 
The  sheep-bells  tinkle,  water  cool, — 
And  in  the  mountain  pass,  a  pipe 
Plays  on  and  on  and  on — 
A  pipe  plays  on. 


While  glowworms  blur  the  dewy  gorse, 

And  stars  float  from  their  tidal  source, 

And  Grecian  peasants  steal 

By  creaking  wagon- wheel, 

We  ponder  on  this  Life  and  Death 

Within  the  taking  of  our  breath; 

So  old,  these  ruined  fanes  that  lie, 

Beneath  the  temple  of  the  sky ! 

So  old  these  sacred  stones  that  gleam 

With  the  strange  shining  Delphic  dream. 

While  in  the  mountain-pass  the  pipe 

Plays  on  and  on  and  on — 

A  pipe  plays  on. 

So  old,  this  silence  trembles,  brought 

To  solemn  tension  with  our  thought — 

Deep  as  the  mystic  strain 

Born  in  Apollo's  fane: 

"Dear  God,  'tis  well  no  Pythoness 

For  us  may  prophesy  or  bless ! 

Well,  that  no  riddle- verse  controls 

The  will  that  slumbers  in  our  souls ! 

Well,  that  we  choose,  calm,  clear-eyed,  free 


48  DELPHI 

To  live  and  learn  our  truth  from  Thee!" — 
Still  in  the  mountain-pass  the  pipe 
Plays  on  and  on  and  on — 
The  pipe  plays  on. 


THE  DESCENT  FROM  DELPHI 

Dawn,  pallid  and  cold, 

Parnassos,  grave  in  the  mist 

Like  the  shrouded  form  of  a  priest ; 

No  light  in  the  East, 

Save  thin  stars,  worn  and  old. 

Under  the  "Shining  Ones" 
The  temple-steps,  in  white, 
Chromatic,  gleaming,  light, 
Mount  to  the  stadion's 
Oval  of  crumbling  stones. 

Dawn,  stealthy  and  still, 
Frostily  fills  the  fields, 
Dew  sprinkles  the  maize ; 
Where  ranging  cattle  graze, 
His  pipe  a  shepherd  plays. 

Sun,  striking  the  snow 
On  far  off  mountain  height, — 
Day,  solemn  and  slow, 
Rises  from  Long  Ago 
Clothed  in  pure  samite. 
4  49 


50       THE  DESCENT  FROM  DELPHI 

A  scarlet  rug  in  a  field; 
A  man  and  a  woman  asleep — 
Around  them,  dogs  and  sheep, 
Where  the  maize  is  quivering  gold, 
As  the  broad  day  is  unrolled. 

The  man  and  the  woman  asleep — 
Alone  in  the  Delphian  field ! 
And  the  world,  once  more  revealed 
Young,  and  all  time  is  healed 
The  Oracle  unsealed! 


TWILIGHT  ON  ACRO-CORINTH 

From  the  Venetian  arch,  the  doubting  owl 
Sends  forth  his  whimper;  where  the  sheep-dogs 

lope 
Sounds  donkey's  thirsty  octave,  call  of  fowl, 
And  near  green-silver  maize  and  poppied  slope, 
Goat-bells  ring  jangling  on  the  tether-rope 
As,  truant  from  some  hooded  shepherd's  scowl, 
Dim,  horned  shapes  in  black  thyme-bushes  grope. 

I  look  four  ways  down  all  the  rich  descents 

To  mountain,  cliff,  and  sea.     First  to  the  South 

Where  Argolis  in  purple  permanence 

Gives  sumptuous  breast  to  dark  sea's   hungry 

mouth. 
Enthroned  in  mountain  fastness,  warm,  immense, 
Or,  lying  prone  by  misty  olive-fence 
Losing  herself  in  languid,  dusty  drouth. 

Far  Eastward,  islanded  i^gina  keeps 
Her  tree-girt  shrine,  and  Sunion  the  prow 
Of  white  sea-temple  lifts  on  Laurion  steeps 
Where  mines  are  hid,  and  silver  quarries  show. 
Then,  like  a  bee,  the  eager  eye  upsweeps 
To  Athens,  where  the  Acros-flowers  grow 
And  the  dim  road  to  far  Eleusis  creeps. 
5i 


52       TWILIGHT  ON  ACRO-CORINTH 

I  look  toward  Athens,  over  golden  gorse, 
Purple  anemones,  Saronic  seas, 
Powerful,  kingly  blue.     I  see  the  source 
Of  all  Mind  ever  was,  and  then  the  trees 
Blurring,  I  turn  me  West,  perforce 
Sweeping  Arcadian  ridges,  as  light  flees 
And  over  paling  skies  cloud-horses  course. 

Bceotia,  Phocis,  Lokris  ranges  tread 
Vast  gorges  'round  the  Gulf's  imperial  shores; 
Like  citadels,  their  summits,  thunder-bred, 
And  at  their  feet  are  sacred  river-floors, 
And  many  a  mountain  stream  its  crystal  bed 
Has  hidden  beyond  those  labyrinthine  doors 
From  whence  down  winds  the  clue-like  glancing 
thread. 

And  as  the  night  surrounds  me  and  the  stars 
Climb  up   the   clouds   like  mountain-pastured 

flocks, 
I  muse  on  Progress,  that  which  hurts  and  scars 
Nature  with  blood,  machines,  and  battle-shocks. 
But,  as  I  gaze,  the  whole  wild  sky  unbars 
War's  end  portending;  the  new  time  unlocks 
Ultimate  peace  no  human  passion  mars. 


ROMANCE 

The  "wine-dark"  sea  menaces  as  of  old, 
When  young  Odysseus  dared;  and  all  our  ship 
Shudders  against  the  midnight  mountain-waves 
Hurrying  to  crush  the  steamer,  in  her  plunge 
On   black   path,    under   wind-blown   scattered 

stars. 
Strange  is  the  contrast !     Strange  it  is  to  lie 
Cabined  and  berthed,  feeling  like  crystal,  hid 
In  a  night-moving  mountain ;  thence  to  see 
At  port-hole's  glimmer,  land,  solemn  and  strange! 
Old  as  all  prayers,  all  vigils,  and  all  hope! 
As  the  ship  stops  at  Patras,  and  bells  ring, 
To  look  out  on  the  mole-lights,  red  and  white, 
And  see  the  black,  unreadable  night-shore. 
And  then,  to  lie  back,  ponder  the  mystery 
Of  that  one  man — that  little  ugly  man — 
Reviled,  unknown,  and  unbelieved,  who  burned 
So  fiercely  with  his  message,  that  he  sailed 
From  port  to  port,  to  give  it.     My  age  boasts 
Its  Christian  ethics  cool  expedience. 
That  age,  simply  knew  a  man  named  "Paul," 
53 


.  54  ROMANCE 

Who  fought  with  beasts,  endured  the  stripes, 
to  give 

His  flaming,  tender,  strong  epistles;  wrote 

To  the  people,  as  'twixt  starvings  and  ship- 
wrecks 

He  sailed  these  waters,  from  the  "upper  coasts." 


NIGHT  IN  OLD  CORINTH 

A  hill  trembling  with  grain 
And  a  winding  path. 
Shadowy  sheep  on  the  slopes; 
The  sound  of  bells  and  sea, 
The  sound  of  a  peasant  song, 
The  sound  of  pipe  and  drum  .  . 
And  in  the  twilight  grey 
Apollo's  temple. 

Wide  doors  and  the  cottage  fire, 
Bright  coffee-coppers;  plates 
Of  white  curds  and  of  fish; 
A  man  in  a  scarlet  cap, 
Turning  a  roasting  spit; 
A  woman  by  the  fount  .  .  . 
And  in  the  twilight  grey 
Apollo's  temple. 

How  was  it  when  Paul  came? 
Corinth  was  blazing  white, 
Walled  and  rich  and  corrupt. 
They  "sat  to  eat  and  drink 
And  rose  up  but  to  play!" 
The  Purple  Sellers  knew  .  .  . 
But  in  the  twilight  gleamed 
Apollo's  temple! 
55 


56  NIGHT  IN  OLD  CORINTH 

The  fountain's  hung  with  moss 

But  the  cypress-trees  are  tall, 

And  little  winged  shapes 

Say  "Nike"  in  the  ground. 

The  Jews  "requiring  signs," 

And  the  Greeks  "looking  for  wisdom," 

Still  in  the  twilight,  see 

Apollo's  temple! 


AQUAMARINE 

I  think,  when  I  grow  tired  of  the  world, 
I  shall  go  back  to  Greece  (in  spring,  of  course), 
By  forest  trail,  and  oleander  source, 
Past    snow-peaks   on    green    mountain    lawns 
impearled. 

To  Trypi:  where,  from  saddle  I  shall  slide, 
And  hear  my  donkey's  bell  jerk  as  he  feeds 
On  herbs  and  simples — growing  to  his  needs — 
By  rosy  roofs  set  in  the  green  glenside. 

Far  down  the  valleys  I  shall  hear  the  call 
Of  white-garbed  peasants;  throaty  cattle-cry; 
The  little  Trypi  brook  will  rustle  by 
Among  the  poplars,  silver-green  and  tall. 

I  shall  watch  Greek  girls,  toiling  up  the  height, 
Laden  with  brush  and  whorls  of  scented  thyme, 
And  see  their  youthful  climbing  pantomime, 
Ere  I  lie  down  to  ponder  with  my  nvght 

On  three  sweet  subjects,  simple  village  themes, 
And  yet  so  strange,  so  subtle,  I  have  met 
No  man,  nor  woman,  who  can  tell  me  yet 
The  answers,  nor  have  found  them  in  my  dreams. 
57 


58  AQUAMARINE 

First:   The   Greek   plane-trees,    cool   ancestral 

trees, 
Biblical-strong,  like  mighty  tents  of  Saul, 
What  earth  power  spreads  their  green  ethereal 
Canopied  gloom,  their  soft  immensities? 

Next,  the  Greek  fruits  and  flowers;  what  godlike 

soil 
Nourishes  orange,  fig,  and  olive  stretch, 
So  that  no  child  goes  forth  the  goats  to  fetch 
But  fills  his  cap  with  colored  orchard  spoil? 

Last,  I  shall  ponder  (never  sure,  quite, 
Imaging  richly,  merged  in  miracle) 
Wondering  what  source  conceals  the  mystic  shell 
Staining  with  blue  the  ^Egean's  mica-light. 

Lies  in  it  some  great  Pool,  that  slow  distils 
Azure  of  flowers  and  skies  to  pigment  bold? 
Or  do  the  encircling  mountain-chains  enfold 
A  vat  of  purple,  whence  wine-color  spills? 

^Egean  Blue,  that  crimson-orchil  tide 
Bold,  deep,  intensest,  incandescent  flame, 
Pure  well  of  Azure,  fitly  has  no  name 
But  Greece  in  her  inimitable  pride 

Of  worship  on  strange  occult  secret  planes 
The  hidden  sponsors  of  her  visual  life 
May,  long  ago,  'neath  sacrificial  knife 
Have  loosed  the  gods*  blue  blood  from  Dacian 
veins. 


AQUAMARINE  59 

One  can  see  Spartan  blood  flow  down  Greek 

shores, 
In  crimson  poppy-tide,  in  scarlet  waves; 
But  it  is  "wine-dark"  energy,  that  laves     • 
Gold-bronzed  rocks  and  hidden  sea-cave  floors. 

Ah !  it  is  not  enough  for  me  to  say 
"Faery  silver-azure!     Clear,  superb 
Cobalt  no  chemistry  of  sun  can  curb, 
Attar  of  purest  lapis-lazuli." 

'Tis  not  enough  for  me  to  invent  a  name 

Like    Nauplian    Blue,    Greek    Blue,    Blue    of 

Emprise, 
As  I  re-vision  golden  argosies 
Or  red-sailed  moth-boats  sailing  molten  flame. 

No — I  must  ponder  (never  sure  quite), 
Always  a-dream  in  Trypi,  where  the  trees 
Whisper  adventurous  old  names  of  seas, 
Through  silver  valley-eve  and  mountain  night. 


THE  SHEPHERDESS 

Not  only  mulberry  vendors  travel  Langada  Pass, 
Rough  soldiers  and  black-fezzed  peddlers  take 

that  trail 
And  stop  to  drink  at  a  khan  'neath  the  rocky 

mass, 
Where  the  pine-trees  root  in  the  drifts  of  sliding 

shale, 
And  a  half -crazed  Greek  sells  resin- wine  and 

cheese 
And  "  Thalassa"  mutters,  pointing  to  far-off  seas. 

For  Langada  Pass  is  miles  of  precipice  rock 
Where  the  rug-hung  pack-mules  scramble  with 

fumbling  feet 
Sliding  unsteadily  over  the  cobbles,  that  shock, 
Stone  upon  stone,  in  monotonous  noontide  heat. 
But  a  mountain  girl,  fleet-footed,  with  brown 

knees  bare, 
Flutters  along  the  crags,  where  the  great  pines 

flare. 

Now  the  mulberry  vendors  are  fuddled  with 

Spartan  rum, 
They  howl  in  the  canons  and  kick  the  sides  of 

their  steeds. 

60 


THE  SHEPHERDESS  •      61 

The  soldiers  are  merry,  they  sit  on  the  rocks  and 

hum 
And  talk  politics  and  twiddle  their  malachite 

beads ; 
Hardly  a  shrine  for  a  maid,  or  a  convent  roof, 
Under  the  blue  sky,  classic  and  calm  and  aloof; 
The  goats  stand  cynical,  cloven  of  horn  and 

hoof. 

But  she  whistles  and  calls  and  scrambles  up  to 
her  flock, 

High  on  the  bronze-grey  peaks  of  Langada  Pass, 

With  warm  eyes  mote-flecked,  bright  as  the 
quartz  gold  rock 

A  deer-like,  dryad-like  fierce,  shy,  crag-born 
lass, 

Perching  where  orange  anemones  spangle  the 
banks 

And  white  streams  flash  down  thicketed  moun- 
tain flanks. 

We  told  her  the  tale  of  the  world  and  the  dreams 

of  men, 
We  poured  out  wine-of-the-world  in  her  shepherd 

cup, 
She  took  it  calmly,  thoughtfully,  drinking  up 
All  that  we  were,  quaffing  us,  thirstily,  then: 
"Salute  your  cities,"  the  wild  little  shepherdess 

said, 
And  swift  as  an  eagle,  far  up  the  precipice  sped. 


62  THE  SHEPHERDESS 

Washington,  New  York,  and  Boston  have  new 

renown ! 
Their  rivers  of  seething  light,  where  the  witch 

wires  hold 
Clustering,  bright-balled  fruits,  and  the  chim- 
neys frown 
Like  satyrs  drunk  with  smoke  through  the  sunset 

gold- 
All  these  must  bow,  in  turn,  to  a  little  lass 
Who  "salutes  the  cities"  out  of  Langada  Pass! 


MAY-DAY  IN  KALAMATA 

In  Kalamata,  where  the  harvests  are 
Purple  and  crimson  for  the  currant-bin, 
When  merchants  close  their  shutters  with  a  jar, 
The  young  night-gallant  twangs  his  brown  guitar, 
And  first  begins  the  merry  May-day  din. 

All  night  they  strum  the  mandolins  and 

lutes; 
Glyco,  the  jolly  merchant  of  the  fruits, 
Sings  to  accordion:  "O  nux  kaleT' 
In  Kalamata  on  the  first  of  May. 

Morning   comes.     See   the   church   across   the 

street 
Its  doorway  wreathed !    See  Anastasia  pass, 
Twining  her  pretty  shoulders  with  the  sweet 
Mountain-born  orchids,  brought  on  tireless  feet 
By  lads  from  Sparta  o'er  Taygetos. 

All  night  they  strum  the  lute,  and  mandolin, 
Georgio,  the  dark-eyed,  plays  the  violin, 
Sings  under  balconies:  "0  nux  kal6!" 
In  Kalamata  on  the  first  of  May. 
63 


64  MA  Y-DA  Y  IN  KALA  MA  TA 

The  cottage-doors  are  hung  with  poppy-wreaths, 
To  keep  away  the  evil  spirits:  hats 
Are  garlanded  with  oleander.     Leaves 
Fair,  golden-braided  Marianthe*  weaves 
Into  a  veil  for  her  long  sunny  plaits. 

All  night  they  sound  the  flutes  and  casta- 
nets ; 

Mitchu,  in  pompommed  shoes,  fingers  the 
frets, 

Quaffs  resin-wine, — "Aha — !   0  nux  kale! " 

In  Kalamata  on  the  first  of  May. 

To  the  Platea,  all  the  booths  astir; 
Mulberry  vendors  clad  in  goat-skins  come; 
Here  are  embroidered  bags  and  fragrant  myrrh, 
And  silver-handled  knives ;  and  the  drum- whirr 
Beats  like  a  heart  throb  in  the  village  hum. 

All  night  they  play  the  rough  accordion; 
The  sailors  from  the  "skala,"  to  a  man, 
March,    drunk    with    mastika,    along    the 

quay, 
In  Kalamata  on  the  first  of  May. 

Along  the  railroad  all  the  stations  fill 
With  children  garlanded;  the  peasant  throngs 
Sing  at  car  windows.     From  a  laurel  hill, 
Rings  "Zito"  with  the  happy  springtime  thrill, 
While  rose-crowned  maidens  chant  their  merry 
songs. 


MA  Y-DA  Y  IN  KALA MA TA  65 

All  night  they  play  the  violin  and  drum ; 
And  to  the  windows  tawdry  women  come 
Bright-eyed  and  bold,  to  hear:    "0   nux 

kale!" 
In  Kalamata  on  the  first  of  May. 

May-day,  down  all  the  silver-olive  plain, 
Along  the  mountain  trail,  and  torrent  track, 
May-day  on  ships  on  blue  Messenian  Main, 
On  locomotives,  where  the  young  Greek  swain 
Hangs  lily  wreaths  upon  his  engine  stack ! 

All  night  I  hear  the  zither;  the  guitar 
Maddens  my  northern  pulses,  and  from  far, 
Far  up  the  mountainside:  "O  nux  kaleT' 
Wakes  Kalamata  on  the  first  of  May. 


FROM  THE  ARCADIAN  GATE 

From    Arcadian    Gate,  with   its   tower-topped 

bulk, 
White  on  Ith6me's  war-ridden  hulk, 
A  road  winds  down  past  the  artichokes, 
And  the  almond-trees,  and  acacia-spokes. 
And,  silver-harnessed,  the  small  brooks  fly 
Down  to  Messenian  industry. 
And,  here  one  sees,  under  the  trees, 
Greek  women  making  the  cheese. 

Black  kettles  hang  from  the  giant  plane, 
Where  children  gather,  and  where  you  gain 
A  charming  sight  from  your  donkey-mount, 
For  the  wash-trough's  set  by  the  village-fount, 
And,  hanging  high  on  the  olive-boughs, 
Where,  grey,  light-fingered  zephyrs  drowse, 
Swaying  in  bags,  in  the  summer  breeze, 
Greek  babies  take  their  embroidered  ease. 

In  old  Dodona,  so  they  say, 
In  a  time  when  priest-craft  had  its  sway, 
"The  Will  of  the  Gods"  came  jostling, 
Through  the  oak-leaves'  gentle  rustling, 
66 


FROM  THE  ARCADIAN  GATE       67 

And  the  Priest  of  the  Oracle  carefully  hung 
Brazen  vessels,  which,  easily  rung, 
By  moving  branches,  in  many  keys, 
Instructed  the  Greeks  how  their  gods  to  please. 

'Tis  an  old  Greek  fashion  this  hanging  of  things; 
Many  the  legends  from  which  it  springs. 
Twists  of  scarlet,  and  bright-dyed  flax, 
Hang  on  the  rough  Arcadian  shacks, 
Where  the  railroad  follows  the  mountain  base. 
They  hang  brown  jugs  by  the  watering-place. 
Amulets  hang  on  the  goats  and  the  swine; 
Wreaths  hang  high  on  the  house  and  the  shrine. 

And  now  the  pots  for  the  cheese 
And  the  babies  in  black-eyed  reveries 
Sway,  like  the  brasses  long  ago. 
Hanging  on  high  branch  and  on  low! 
Somehow  the  sight  doth  strangely  please, 
This  new  fruit  on  the  old  Greek  trees! 
One  hears  "Will  of  the  Gods!"  in  speech 
Babbling  from  olive  and  oak  and  beech. 


THE  ABBESS 

Pink  oleander  lamps  the  brook-bed  trails, 
And  orange-trees  hang  fruitage  o'er  the  grain, 
And  there  are  hedges,  green  with  fitful  rain, 
And  cyclamen  in  white  the  hillside  veils. 

While   through   the   villages,    'neath    Mistra's 

height, 
The  children  run  to  give  a  rose  and  stare 
At  strangers  riding  where  grey  olives  flare 
Mistily  in  the  long  hills'  summer  light. 

Rose-pinnacled,  a  Franco-Turkish  wall 
Trailing  with  ivy,  rears  its  crumbling  mass, 
Pantassa  Church's  apse  and  mouldered  hall 
Look  down  upon  the  plain  of  Eurotas. 

Byzantine  tower's  clear  octagonal, 
Jewel-like  and  fretted,  circles  on  the  sky; 
A  pav&d  walk  leads  to  the  nunnery, 
Past  moss-grown  arch  and  ruined  capital. 

And  here,  an  Abbess,  old,  yet  maiden-faced, 
Sits  in  a  frigid  pomp,  in  solemn  pride : 
Stately,  aloof,  the  church's  pallid  bride, 
Greets  us  with  countenance  austere  and  chaste. 
68 


THE  ABBESS  69 

The  Abbess  leads  the  way,  with  rigid  calm, 
Detached,  haughty,  imperious;  her  eyes 
Pompously  ignorant,  religious-wise, 
Cool  as  the  blank  intoning  of  a  psalm. 

There  are  great  piles  of  rose-leaves  in  the  room, 
Convent-brewed  wines  and  bright  bags,  needle- 
wrought  ; 
There  is  an  ancient  fountain  in  the  court, 
And  guttering  candles  in  the  Church's  gloom. 

"The  times  have  changed,"  we  said;  "women 

no  more 
Hide  them  from  life.     We  mingle  and  we  work. 
Christ  only  asks  that  not  a  soul  shall  shirk 
Or  flinch  from  bearing  burdens  that  He  bore." 

The  Abbess  smiled.     "Silence,"  she  said;  "we 

learn, 
On  this  hilltop  we  women  watch  the  East, 
The  morning  sun  o'er  Sparta  is  our  priest, 
The  mountain  stars  like  midnight  tapers  burn." 

We  looked  at  her;  her  eyes  were  crystal  clear, 
Passionless,  pure  and  cold  as  moonlit  snow. 
Something  she  felt  that  we  could  never  know; 
Our  vision  to  her  eyes  could  not  appear. 

We  left  her  in  the  shadowed  court  to  brood, 
Where  Frankish  frescoes  peer  through  shadows 

dim, 
And  cloistered  nuns  in  tuneless,  wailing  hymn, 
Chant  Faith  untried  in  mountain  solitude. 


GREEK  FARMERS 

In  green  Laconia,  where  the  hedges  are 
Spring-starred  with  flowers,  and  the  little  brooks 
Wake   all   the   mountains   from   their   solemn 

dreams 
Of  the  old  days,  when  gods  moved  strong  and 

white 
On  hill  and  sea,  or  slept  within  the  clouds; 
There  are  great  slopes,  broken  with  tillage,  rough 
With  clumsy  ploughing,  thick  with  olive-trees. 
And  here  they  stand,  the  tall,  black-bearded 

men, 
Whose  eyes,  unblinking,  look  into  the  sun. 
Men,  plainly  bred  from  tribal  wanderings, 
Whose  blood  is  fevered  fire,  men  whose  lands 
Are  bare  with  waste  and  bloodshed;  men   who 

stand 
Gazing  at  strangers  with  shy  interest; 
Who,  when  you  question  their  fresh  peasant-eyes 
Straighten  up  from  their  field-tasks  and  reply: 
"These  are  our   flocks  and  pastures — we  are 

Greeks!" 

Black-bearded  men  who  sow,  What  is  the  Seed? 

For  Greece  has  lain  beneath  the  Turkish  plough, 

70 


GREEK  FARMERS  71 

And  all  her  hills  and  mountains  smoke  again 
With   treachery,  rape,   and  murder.      On  the 

seas 
The  nations  wait  to  grasp;  the  kings  and  crews 
Who  play  the  Blood-game  snap  at  little  lands 
Like  dogs  at  flies.     Yea,  that  fair  seed  ye  sow, 
Is  it  Greek  seed?  though  sown  by  mongrel  hands? 
Seed  of  a  greatness  far  exceeding  theirs, 
The  lands  that  would  despoil  Greece?    Will  it 

grow 
That  seed,  Deucalion's  hope,  Athena's  pride, 
Is  it  once  more  the  sacred  seed  that  fell 
Out  of  Demeter's  hand  on  holy  ground? 
Or,  is  it  Cadmus-sown,  for  crops  of  Hell? 
Truthfully,  farmers,  can  ye  stand  and  say: 
"These  are  our   fields   and   pastures,   we   are 

Greeks"? 

They  make  no  answer — strong,  black-bearded 

men, 
Grimly  at  work  on  the  Phigalian  Hill 
Where  the  grey  Bassae  Temple  guards  the  corn. 
They  make  no  answer  in  the  mountain  towns 
Arcadian,  where  pink-roofed  houses  splotch 
The  hillsides  and  where  hidden  teamsters  climb 
Thicketed  bridle-paths  beside  the  streams. 
They  cannot  tell  us,  if  they  know,  what  seed 
The  sculptors,  patriots,  and  statesmen  sowed; 
Nor  even  if  these  furrows  that  they  plow 
Will  bring  a  season's  harvest  to  their  doors. 


72  GREEK  FARMERS 

But,  as  we  pass  them,  under  upland  oaks, 
Under  the  fig-trees  in  the  rocky  gorge, 
They  walk  with  strange,  fleet  steps,  so  tireless, 
So  strong,  with  eyes  set  on  some  distant  goal, 
Till  we,  too,  puzzled,  murmur:"  They  are  Greeks" 

Oh,  fateful  World !  insatiate  modern  life — 
Driven  by  urgencies  too  great  to  tell, 
Destroying,  recreating,  balancing — 
What    of    this  Old  World,   dreaming  modern 

dreams, 
Yet  with  the  old  dream  dwelling  in  the  land 
To  teach  it  Pride  ?     Shall  we  dare  face  a  Greek — 
With  all  his  shining  temples  at  his  back, 
With  the  eternal  Thought  behind  his  name, — 
As  he  were  German,  Russian,  Turk,  Chinese? 
If  these  black-bearded  mongrels  share  the  pride 
Of  Argonauts  and  claim  a  classic  birth 
And  till  the  wild  land,  dropping  in  the  seed, 
Forever  saying  softly,  "We  are  Greeks," 
Why  should  they  garner  any  other  crop, 
Why  should  they  bend  and  toil  for  better  gain 
Than  seeing  New  Greece  realize  her  dream  ? 


SONG 

Toil  on,  fishermen! 
Pan  sits  on  the  cliff, 
Smiles  and  watches  the  fare, 
Wreaths  him  with  flowers  there, 
Bites  at  a  lettuce  leaf, 
Binds  him  a  poppy  sheaf, 
Drinks  from  a  painted  jug, 
Watching  the  full  nets  tug; 
Toil  on,  fishermen! 

Work  on,  harvesters! 
Demeter  rests  on  the  hill, 
Near  to  the  threshing-floor; 
Near  to  the  cottage  door, 
Girds  her  with  fruited  vines, 
Blows  foam  from  the  wines, 
Drinks  from  a  golden  bowl, 
While  corn-filled  wagons  roll; 
Work  on,  harvesters! 

Rest  well,  goat-herds! 
Hermes  cares  for  the  sheep, 
Flashes  across  the  sun, 
73 


74  SONG 

Burnishes  helmet  wings, 

The  wreathed  caduceus  brings, 

To  swift  talaria-flight, 

Through  the  sheep-scattered  night; 

Rest  well,  goat-herds! 


TO  THE  OLYMPIAN  HERMES 

Now  let  the  formal,  folded  curtain  fall 
Over  this  majesty  of  mellowed  stone. 
Let  me  go  forth  with  eyes  alight  with  joy 
From  this  god-gazing.     Let  me  not  pause  nor 

stay 
Till  by  some  clear  word  I  have  given  faith 
To  doubting  minds,  how  Greeks  ennobled  form 
And  carved  high  meaning  in  a  body's  truth. 
Yet,  Hermes,  fair  god,  consciously  the  flower 
Of  the  Greek  dream,  sculptured  so  lofty-kind, 
Stainlessly  physical,  superbly  true; — 
Who  is  to  tell  thee  that  thou  hast  one  fleck 
On  that  pure  manliness,  and  dare  to  speak 
Something  against  thy  calm  that  seems  to  say, 
"Earth  has  no  greater  gift  than  perfect  limbs, 
And  god-like  manhood's  straight  significance"? 
Forgive  me,  Hermes,  I  had  thought  to  take 
Thy  princely  healthiness  to  ailing  worlds; 
To  meanness  and  to  littleness  and  lust, 
Bidding  them  gaze  upon  thee  in  thy  calm, 
Telling  them : ' '  This  is  all .     This  Hermes  stands 
For  Greek  expression  of  a  definite  truth 
Speaking  its  message  to  the  world  of  men 
And  placing  beauty  as  a  final  goal." 
75 


76       TO  THE  OLYMPIAN  HERMES 

But  then  I  pondered:  What  will  be  the  gain 
If  men  say:  "Hermes  is  very  kind  and  fair, 
Wholesome  and  generous  and  unafraid 
And — soulless!     Let  be!  we'll  no  longer  hope 
For  strength  more  than  the  body — loftier  calm 
Than  this  superb  control  of  manly  limbs, 
Friendly  with  sun  and  rock,  and  sea,  and  life. 
Now  yield  we  up  that  old,  defeated  claim 
Of  soul,  the  ugly,  hunted,  harried  thing, 
And  trust  us  to  a  pagan  manliness, 
Stand  Hermes-like,  unpuzzled,  unamazed!" 
I  knew,  oh  Hermes!     Greek  perfection,  lit 
Like  stately  lamp  with  one  clear,  shining  jo}^, 
That  of  well-being,  I  knew  life  ended  not 
With  just  the  beauty  of  a  human  form ; 
Marble,  translated  into  mystery 
Must   needs   have   line   to   make   it  fair  and 

right; 
And  that  is  all  .  .  .     Thy  unknown  sculptor 

knew 
The  pagan  mind  and  set  thy  godhood  high, 
In  an  unsullied  semblance  of  a  man 
Untouched  by  sorrow,  poverty,  and  shame. 
Immortal  semblance — then  the  cleavage  comes! 
Real  men  must  live  (we  mortals  know  the  fight), 
Hot-blooded,  passionate,  forlorn,  astray; 
We  know  how  men  determine  to  be  true 
To  some  one  Greatness, — struggle  to  the  test 
Baffled  and  crucified; — in  bitter  shame 
Leaving  the  unsolved  meaning  of  their  lives. 


TO  THE  OLYMPIAN  HERMES       77 

And  now  we  know,  by  those  French  faces  torn 
To  rags,  around  the  dumbly  loyal  eyes; 
By  English  soldiers,  done  to  crippled  wrecks 
And  hideous  mangling,  how  men  dare  to  die, 
Or  live  their  silent,  agonizing  days. 
And  then  we  know  there  is  a  human  thing 
Transcending  any  body — called  a  Soul ! 
Yea,  let  the  formal,  folded  curtain  fall 
O'er  all  that  graciousness  of  mellowed  stone. 
The  Pagan  knew  the  beauty  of  the  flesh. 
We,  Modern,  view  that  beauty  with  resolve 
Firm  and  unswerving  that  it  be  outdone, 
Firm  that  all  ugly,  bruised,  and  broken  things 
Shall  stand  invested  with  a  deathless  pride 
Before  our  eyes — that  see  them  beautiful ; 
Determined  that  the  perfect  ones  approach 
Humbly  with  sense  of  some  imperfectness, 
And  kneel  in  homage  to  the  shattered  brave. 


GREECE,  1915-16 

Yea,  taunt  me,  World  Voice — I  am  dumb  and 

blind, 
My  body  broken,  and  my  heart  unclad. 
Yet  am  I  silent,  while  strange  forces  wind 
The    chains    about    me.       Helpless,     scorned, 

maligned, 
I  answer  not.     The  Greece  of  long  ago 
Speaks  for  me  in  this  newest  time  of  woe. 

Europe  reviles  me.     Yea,  I  stand  alone 
Like  woman  left  before  the  ruined  door, 
Like  woman  who,  beneath  her  outraged  moan, 
Remembers  sacred  hours.     Like  a  stone 
I  am  cold,  passionless,  mid  the  wild  uproar, 
Murmuring  " Peace"    and  "Hellas"  o'er  and 
o'er. 

Apollo's  beauty  sprang  from  out  my  womb; 
Socrates  called  me,  mother.     Every  hill 
And  templed  glade,  and  solemn-urned  tomb, 
Bids  me  refrain;  no  longer  to  resume 
War  and  rapine,  no  longer  blood  to  spill, 
Nor  hate  engender,  nor  intent  to  kill. 
78 


GREECE,  1915-16  79 

Europe !    Greece  speaks,  Greece,  who  so  deeply 

drank 
The  bitter  cup  of  ravage;  who  has  laid 
A  new  foundation:  near  her  altars,  blank 
Of  by-gone  fires,  she  phalanxes  the  rank 
Of  golden  grain.    And  bids  the  new-born  Greek 
Old  classic  words  with  modern  tongue  to  speak. 

Homer  withholds  me,  ^Eschylus  restrains, 
"Human  Euripides"  exhorts  me — "Stay!" 
I  was  despoiled  once ;  strike  off  my  chains, 
Unsay  the  insult !     Greece  nor  plots  nor  feigns, 
Only  withholds  her,  agonized,  at  bay, 
But  loyal  to  her  hallowed  cliffs  and  plains! 


THE  SINGING  STONES 

"Remember  me,  the  Singing  Stone  .  .  .  for  .  .  . 
Phoebus  .  .  .  laid  on  me  his  Delphic  harp — thenceforth 
I  am  lyre- voiced;  strike  me  lightly  with  a  little  pebble; 
and  carry  away  witness  of  my  boast." — Greek  Anthology. 

Beyond  brute  Titan  dissonance,  black,  bitter 

strains 
Of  Warfare;  through  the  smitten  fields  of  wheat; 
Upon  the  bloody  bridges,  where  the  wains 
Roll  drone  chords  between  marching  soldier-feet ; 
Through  mob-voice,  robbed  of  cadence  and  of 

beat, 
I  hear  the  Stones  of  Sunion 
Singing  by  the  sea : 

"Lift  we  on  high  our  time-defying  shafts! 
Our  white-wing  on  the  promontory  stays, 
Our  age-old  glory  from  the  Ancient  wafts 
Godward  out  of  an  old,  blind,  Pagan  mood, 
While  in  the  surging  blue  the  Islands  brood 
In  dim,  time-purpled  haze." 

Out  of  the  din  of  sociologic  strife, 
Of  hoarse-voiced  men,  embruted  by  their  work, 
Of  women,  low-intoning  lesser  life,  • 
From  the  rich  Theme,  which  modern  voices  shirk, 
80 


THE  SINGING  STONES  81 

Where  all  the  forced,  half-harmonizings  lurk, — 
I  hear  the  stones  of  Delphi 
Singing  in  the  rain : 

"Black  swell  the  mountains,  guarding  well  the 

Cleft, 
Clear  spills  the  water,  o'er  the  fountain  rim, 
The  worshipers  are  gone,  the  priests  bereft. 
Men  keep  no  light  upon  the  altar  dim; 
No  Council  meets,  but  ah,  the  hope  is  left, 
The  dream  goes  on,  new  voices  chant  the  Hymn." 

To  the  soft  twilight  of  ^Esthetic  ease, 
Where  a  smile  is  no  smile,  a  tear  no  tear; 
Where  the  fruit  has  no  seed,  the  wine  no  lees, 
No  strong  song  comes.    Yet,  faintly  year  by  year, 
'Mid  those  who  listen,  wistful,  and  in  fear, 
I  hear  the  stones  of  Bassae 
Singing  on  the  heights : 

44  Grey  comes  the  dawn  upon  the  mountain  crest, 
Warm  lie  the  vines  on  the  Phigalian  Hill ; 
The  deities  are  gone,  their  secrets  rest 
Hidden  by  time.     But  still  the  Sun-God  smites 
Altar  and  soil,  and  richly  thus  requites 
The  farmers'  faith,  and  all  the  fields  fulfill." 

And  everywhere  my  wistful  head  is  bowed, 
Pensive,  absorbed,  to  find  significance, 
I  hear  stone  chorus;  the  immortal  crowd 
Of  pillars  round  some  vocal  radiance — 
I 


82  THE  SINGING  STONES 

Chant  Spirit-Song  of  new  inheritance — 
I  hear  all  Pagan  Temples 
Singing  in  the  dawn : 

"Lift  we  on  high  our  columns  shining  white! 
Our  broad  wings  on  the  promontories  stay; 
For  us  forever  was  the  world's  first  light, — 
Ignorant  God-seeking.     Ye,  that  follow,  may- 
Soar  to  a  higher  vision !  'mid  the  Pagan  night. 
We  were  the  singers  of  a  brighter  Day." 


THE  OLD  QUEST 

"Feed  in  joy  thine  own  flock  and  look  on  thine  own 
land." — Greek  Anthology. 

"Friend!  hast  thou  seen  the  rosy  mass 
Of  cyclamen  along  the  pass 

To  Arcady? 
Doth  the  green  country  sweep  enlarge 
Beneath  the  white  cloud's  floating  barge? 
Does  the  sun  lift  a  gleaming  targe 

On  Arcady? 

"Hold.  .  .  .  Do  the  trees  keep  happy  nests 
Between  the  young  leaves'  trembling  breasts 

In  Arcady? 
Does  running  water  laugh  and  sing, 
Do  butterflies  waft  wing-and-wing? 
Spins  the  white  moon  her  mystic  ring 

O'er  Arcady? 

"Speak! — Are  there  greenwoods  cool  and  dense, 
Do  flower-grails  gleam  out  from  thence 

In  Arcady? 
Do  pines  the  aisles  and  arches  blur, 
With  frankincense  and  breaths  of  myrrh, 
Veiling  the  happy  forms  that  stir 
Through  Arcady? 

83 


84  THE  OLD  QUEST 

"Thou  seest  that  I  am  blind/' — said  he, 
' '  But  hast  thou  been  where  I  would  be 
In  Arcady? 
Oh !  didst  thou  see  within  the  gate 
The  one  who  promised  me  to  wait  ? 
Stays  she  for  me,  though  I  come  late 
To  Arcady? 

"  I  wonder  that  she  doth  not  send 
A  clue  to  show  the  roads  that  trend 

To  Arcady — 
But  thou  canst  tell  me.     Does  it  rise 
Empinnacled  to  azure  skies?  .  .  . 
Thou  sayst?  .  .  .  None  knoweth  where  it  lies, 

Fair  Arcady!" 

'  Tis  sunset  and  the  end  of  day, 

The  roads  are  closed — so  all  men  say — 

To  Arcady. 
The  birds  and  butterflies  are  fled; 
The  honey  quaffed;  the  perfume  shed; 
The  feet  that  used  to  dance  are  sped 

From  Arcady. 

"The  roads  are  closed?  ...  Oh,  not  to  me! 
Thou  seest  that  I  am  blind,"  said  he. 

"And  Arcady?  .  .  . 
Full  well  I  know  thou  liest  now, 
Hast  thou  the  world-mark  on  thy  brow? 
Hast  thou  no  one  to  'wait  thee — thou? 

In  Arcady?" 


THE  OLD  QUEST  85 

He  wanders  down  the  darkling  way 
The  mute  horizons  watch  him  stray 

Toward  Arcady. 
His  feet  are  bleeding,  he  is  blind, 
He  dreams  of  that  he  will  not  find, 
But  in  his  wide  unconquered  mind 

Lives  Arcady! 


THE  GODS  ARE  NOT  GONE,  BUT  MAN  IS 
BLIND 

Over  the  hills  the  gods  come  walking, 
Where  the  black  pines  draw  their  swords, 
And  the  spell-bound  leaves  cease  talking, 
For  the  High-Priest  sun  comes  stalking 
And  'tis  no  time  for  words. 

And  oh !  the  gifts  the  gods  are  bringing — 
Stretches  of  happy  heath, 
Jewels  with  souls,  and  flowers  singing; 
Smiling  stars,  and  new  hope  springing 
With  the  winged  hope  called  Death! 

Over  the  hills  the  pipes  are  playing, 
And  the  gods  come  strong  and  fair. 
Alas !  they  know  not  of  the  straying, 
The  faithlessness  and  bitter  saying: 
"  We  know  no  gods,  nor  care.  ..." 

Over  the  hills — the  day-sky  kindles 

On  a  blackened  world  of  clods; 

Dead  and  dry  are  the  flaxless  spindles, 

The  cruse  is  drained, — the  fire  dwindles  .  .  . 

No  worshipers  for  the  gods ! 


86 


THE  SEA  OF  TIME 
(Sappho  sings  to  Alcaeus) 

Only  our  few  short  hours, 

For  you  and  me; 
Temples  and  groves  and  bowers, 

And  then — the  Sea! 

Only  our  finite  word 

For  you  and  me, 
Who  knows  what  gods  have  heard 

Under  the  Sea? 

Love,  though  the  gold  moons  wane 

For  you  and  me, 
We  shall  not  meet  again 

Down  by  the  Sea. 

Ours  shall  be  hidden  ways; 

For  you  and  me 
Stretch  the  long  separate  days — 

Mist  on  the  Sea! 

Artemis — will  she  say 

For  you  and  me 
What  Law  we  must  obey 

Moves  in  the  Sea? 
87 


88  THE  SEA  OF  TIME 

Moves,  till  the  faces  worn 

By  you  and  me, 
Luminous,  dream-forsworn 

Change  in  the  Sea? 

Change,  for  unending  tides 

Bear  you  and  me 
And  the  Self  in  us  glides 

From  Sea  to  Sea. 

Love,  shall  the  sailing  souls 

Of  you  and  me 
Float  where  new  shore  unrolls 

Rimmed  by  the  Sea? 

Comes  then  the  meeting  place 

For  you  and  me? 
Silence  .  .  .  white  bubbles  trace 

Foam  on  the  Sea! 


ON  THE  THOROUGHFARE 

To-day  I  go  to  buy  some  dates 

From  Glyco's  cart. 

"Ten  cents,"  my  smiling  fruitman  states, 

And  then  we  part — 

I  to  the  mart, 

He  for  the  next  fig-buyer  waits ! 

Back  to  my  world  I  go,  its  keen 

Quick  energy 

And  competitions  sharp  and  mean, 

Its  flippancy, 

And  sophistry, 

And  tampering  with  things  unclean ; 

But  Glyco  waits;  he  has  ten  cents; 

And  he  has  hope, 

And  back  of  him,  antecedents 

Give  him  such  scope! 

With  his  traditions'  affluence 

I  cannot  cope! 


89 


AT  P^STUM 

The  low,  flat  marshland,  myrtle  overrun, 

A  palm,  a  Roman  wall  that  skirts  the  way, 

The  far  blue  reaches  of  Salerno's  bay, 

Then  .  .  .  the  three  temples  standing  in  the  sun. 

These  are  the  caskets  of  the  sun-sealed  years; 
'Mid  tides  that  ebb  and  flow,  'neath  stars  that  set, 
Deathless  their  grave  and  tranquil  beauty    .  .  . 

yet 
Buried  in  silence,  in  eternal  tears. 

Beneath  these  tympana  the  Dorians  trod; 
Here,  Doric  priests  upon  an  alien  shore 
Made  sacrifice,  perhaps  these  myrtles  wore, 
And  garlanded  the  offering  to  their  god. 

Demeter  saw  the  bright  libations  spilled; 
To  Hermes  leapt  the  scarlet  through  the  fleece. 
Amid  these  columns  moved  the  gods  of  Greece; 
These  lofty  spaces  with  the  psean  thrilled. 

This,  centuries  ago.     Demeter  now 

Is  known  no  more.     Poseidon,  too,  hath  fled. 

'T  would  seem  that  Pan  and  Hermes  both  are 

dead; 
No  Nike  springs  upon  a  Grecian  prow. 
90 


AT  PMSTUM  91 

Yet  is  this  sacred  pause,  this  pillared  calm 
Still  stirred  by  whispers  from  Tyrrhenian  waves 
While  near  the  shadows  of  these  architraves 
Lie  smiling  shores  of  terraced  fruit  and  palm. 

And  springing  from  Demeter's  altar  site, 
Where  the  old  dream  of  gods  hath  died  away, 
And  the  Greek  torch  burned  down  to  ashen  grey, 
There  blooms  a  star  shape,  mystical  and  white. 

One  mystical  white  star!    Oh!  Pagan  fire 
Whose  temples  stand,  whose  gods  have  been 

forgot, 
One  goddess  holds  in  memory  this  spot, 
Else  why  should  Nature  thus  in  bloom  aspire? 

Why  else  in  this  dim  fane  the  sea  intone, 

And  sun  send  fire  to  the  altars  bare, 

And  moss  and  lichen  trace  strange  scripture, 

where 
The  lizards  flash  like  symbols  o'er  the  stone? 

The  low,  flat  marshland,  myrtle  overrun, 

A  palm,  a  Roman  wall  that  skirts  the  way, 

The  far  blue  reaches  of  Salerno's  bay, 

Then  .  .  .  the  three  temples  standing  in  the  sun. 


PHIDIAS 

A   DRAMATIC   EPISODE 


93 


PHIDIAS 

A  DRAMATIC   EPISODE 

Dungeon  in  an  Athenian  prison;  a  small  grated 
window  near  the  ceiling  shows  a  patch  of  blue  sky. 
The  scene  discloses  Phidias,  prostrate  and  man- 
acled.    In  the  dusk  of  the  cell  lingers  the  Jailer. 

Jailer  (curiously).    What  sayst  thou,  Phidias, 
who  art  accused? 
The  old  plaint,  snarling  that  thou  art  abused? 

Phidias  (lifting  his  head  wearily).  What  do  I 
answer?     Yea !  what  thing  thou  wilt ! 

What  care  I  for  this  legendary  guilt? 

Who  makes  or  unmakes  Unity?    Accused? 

Why,  any  fool  accuses.     It  amused 

The  enemies  of  Pericles  to  stab 

At  him  through  me.  Let  gossips  spread  their 
blab, 

The  sea  is  just  as  broad,  the  sky  as  clear 

And  I  as  blameless. 

Jailer  (persisting) .    But  that  brought  thee  here, 

Took  thee  from  royal  favor,  once  the  dear 

95 


96  PHIDIAS 

Adviser,  friend  of  Pericles.     It  seems 
Here  is  the  end  of  all  thy  mighty  dreams; 
'Twas  Pericles  who  made  thee,  and  there  lurks 
His  royal  patronage  about  thy  works. 

Phidias  {sullenly).     So  reason  vulgar  minds;  as 
well  to  say 
Hephaestus  made  me,  manacled  this  way, 
Hammered  to  fever,  bent  to  twisted  woe. 
No,  clown !  no  tyrant  brought  this  overthrow, 
Nor  my  once  vivid  glory,  but  the  fate 
That  overtakes  the  artist ;  whether  late, 
Slow,  poisoning,  by  deadly  world-born  things, 
Or  early  blight  of  strong  imaginings 
Too  fervent  for  his  frame.     Athens  is  free 
From  every  blame.     Not  Pericles  made  me! 

Jailer  {wagging   his   head   obstinately).     'Twas 
love  of  Pericles  that  cast  thee  here, 
Ungeniused  thee,  put  thee  to  rot  in  drear 
Murk  of  this  den ;  and  if  not  he  who  made 
Thee  what  thou  wast — aloof  and  haughty  blade 
Fellow  I  watched  in  Agora,  as  one 
Treading  on  air,  thy  white  himation 
Streaming  like  wings  back  of  thy  eager  form, 
As  thy  swift  sandal  moved  among  the  swarm 
Of  merchants,  gamesters,  thieves;  while  deep 

gaze  drank 
Of  something  that  was  neither  wealth   nor 
rank — 


PHIDIAS  97 

Why  then, — who  made  thee?  for  that  thou 

hast   fame 
Tis  granted,  when  the  rabble  speak  thy  name. 

Phidias   {moving  restlessly,  clenches  his  hands, 
answering   impatiently).     I  made  me,  fool, 
made  this  unfinished  self, 
Nourished  me  as  a  child,  in  happy  health, 
Fostered  the  thirst  my  mother  gave  to  me 
With  her  electric  milk.     Ecstatic  tree 
Charmides  planted,  I  did  grow  and  thrive, 
Adding  to  that,  what  Greece  alone  could  give ! 
Studied  cult-statues,  studied  Xoana,  saw 
Paralysis  in  Polygnotus'  law, 
Wondered  that  Hegias  and  Hageladas  wrought 
Hardly  beyond  the  cold  Egyptian  thought. 
Out  of  their  almond-eyed  archaic  things, 
New  butterfly,  my  free  Athena  springs! 
My  Zeus  Olympian  came  to  my  prayer 
To  see  a  god.     I  saw,  then  made  him  there! 
(To  jailer.)     Poor  ragged  dolt,  clanking  thy 

silly  keys, 
Did  Pericles  make  me  as  I  made  these? 
Did  Athens  tell  me  what  a  man  must  do 
Who  sees  instinctive  life,  and  sees  it  true? 

Jailer  (impudently).     How  now!  What  saw'st 
thou  that  I  might  not  sec? 
A  rosy  nymph  at  bath !    Aphrodite 
Caught   in  a   net  of  foam?      Hermes*  dis- 
guise? 


98  PHIDIAS 

Come  now,  what  is  this  power  within  thine 
eyes? 

Phidias   {speaking  dreamily  as  if    to  himself). 

What  is  the  power  ?    Life !    The  heroic  thing 
Streaming  magnetic  from  a  sea-gull's  wing, 
That  light  in  stars,  in  waves,  in  children's 

eyes, 
In  green  plane-tree,  or  in  deep,  sphinx-like 

skies 
Of  unknown  countries,  where  the  grasses  blow 
Unseen  of  man ;  where  flower-laced  streamlets 

flow 
Past  mystic  herbs,  Demeter  loves  to  keep 
Secretly  growing  on  the  mountain  steep. 
I  saw  the  curves  of  fruits,  saw  Grecian  sails 
Take  fire-blue  seas;  saw  the  soft,  misty  veils 
Of   maidens   wrap    their  limbs,    saw   horses, 

shields, 
Victories,  warriors,  priests,  and  battlefields; 
Each  man  a  poem;  women  each  a  jar 
Filled  with  soft,  psychic  flame,  an  avatar 
Shaped  to  a  noble  outline,  lofty  truth 
From  some  great  vital  Source — 
(The  Sculptor  breaks  off  suddenly,  scrutinizing 

the  jailer  and  continuing.) 

Rascal,  uncouth 
As  are  thy  words  and  gestures,  I  can  see 
Some  trace  of  life-light. — Gods!   were  I  but 

free — 


PHIDIAS  99 

Jailer    {interrupting  with  smug    complacency). 

Which,  proper  thanks  to  Theseus,  thou  art 

not, 
Thou  light-fingered;  thou  dingy-robed  sot! 
Carving  thy  way  to  treason,  selling  State 
For  greasy  coin,  with  Hermes  as  thy  mate 
Slanting  his  profile  on  it.     Dreamer, — thou! 
"Bronze- worker."       Yea!       By     Dionysus! 

How 
Thou    workedst    guilty    things    for    Athens' 

shame, 
Thinking  to  hide  behind  thy  Patron's  name! 
Athens,  the  famous  city;  thou,  a  worm, 
Coiling  in  earth,  no  four-eyed  marble  herm 
Will  mark.     Our  furry  worms  that  make  the 

silk 
Munch  the  mulberry;  but  thy  crafty  ilk 
Munch  the  fine  gold,  for  sickly  marble  shapes 
Of  statues  stoned  by  every  Jack-a-napes; 
'Twas  thou,  worm,  coiled  'round  thy  princely 

friend, 
And  gained  War-Treasure  for  thy  braggart's 

end. 

Phidias  {sadly  musing).     The  fool  is  glib.      His 
lesson  he  has  got 
From  Agora  and  Propylaea,  not 
The  polished  utterance  of  Bema's  Hill. 
But  that  crowd's  word,  that  bodes  or  good  or 
ill 


ioo  PHIDIAS 

From  a  fierce  thirst;  sneering  pitiless  breath, 
Freezing  a  man,  or  scorching  him  to  death. 

Jailer  {scratching  his  head,  expectorates  know- 
ingly and  argues).     Why  are  thy  statues 
costly?  with  the  urns 
Of  Dipylon  Gate,  the  passer-by  discerns 
Good  lusty  statues,  made  by  Such-an-one, 
Quite  comely,  they,  and  all  of  porous  stone; 
Why  use  Pentelic  marble?  so  much  gold? 
Thou  dreamer-schemer,  sculptor  overbold? 

Phidias  {with  a  moan  turns  from  his  tormentor  to 

face  the  stone  wall,  muttering).     "Dreamer," 

he  called  me.     Is  it  by  that  name 
My  curse  comes?     Verily;  I    dreamed   my 

shame, 
My  rich  accusings.     Dreamed  brook-flowing 

folds 
Of  draperies,  dreamed  my  young  hero-moulds, 
Dreamed  men  who  sat  their  horses,  as  they 

rode 
Clouds  over  seas,  dreamed  Panathenaic  ode 
In  singing-rhythm  round  the  Parthenon; 
The  frieze  and  metopes  of  Theseion; 
Dreamed  the  sweet-bodied  girls,  whose  maiden 

strength 
Poise  vase  and  basket  all  the  Temple  length. 
Dreamed    the    slow,    garlanded,    portentous 

beasts, 


PEtmiAS  ioi 

Led  by  the  veiled  and  sacrificial  priests; 
Dreamed    the    young,     leaping    horseman's 

haughty  ease 
Pediment  grouped,  or  filleted  in  frieze. 
Was  it  a  dream  only  to-day  shall  know? 
Lives  it  no  longer  than  this  artist's  throe? 
If  that  must  be,  then  butterfly  most  drear 
I  sink  back  to  the  worm-thing  crawling  here. 

Jailer    (having    curiously    listened,    now    struts 
forward  and  faces  the  Sculptor.     He  eyes  him 
stupidly  and  shakes  his  finger  at  him) .     Why, 
were  it  not  for  Pericles  who  gave 
Thee  marble,  color,  gold  for  statues  brave, — 
Poured  out  his  coffers, — we  should  amply  be 
Equipped  for  Persia.     Bronze  and  ivory 
Changed   back  to  drachmas,    all   the  sacred 

rock 
Would  stand  as  staunch,  to  the  barbaric  shock, 
As  when  Pisistratus,  with  hardy  race, 
Made  the  Acropolis  his  fortress  place. 
And  look  ye,  with  that  gold  Athena  wears 
(Filched  from  State  monies,  for  thy    stone 

affairs), 
We  could  plant  ships  in  Piraeus,  array 
Our  strength  to  Corinth,  where  the  Persians 

may 
Once    more    with    envy   strike. — But,    thou 

wouldest  bring 
To  a  State's  need  thy  stone  imagining! 


102  PlllDTAS 

Fie!  but  for  gold,  thy  dreams  would  be  as 

vague 
As  fat  my  wife  scrapes  from  altar-dreg, 
And  boils  to  stuff  to  make  my  chiton  white; 
Ethereal  substance,  wind-shaken,  alight 
With  lambent  iridescence,  very  fine, 
From  the  amphora  gushing  forth  like  wine. 
But  look  you,  in  a  moment,  just  a  trace 
Of  foam  is  all  that  froths  from  out  the  vase, 
And  nothing's  left  but  the  damp  greasy  lees; 
So  knave,  with  thee,  without  thy  Pericles ! 

The   Sculptor    {with    scornful    amusement   to 
himself). 
He  mouths  that  name  as  if  it  were  a  mask, 
Through  which  a  stupid  actor  says  his  task, 
Forgets,  mistakes,  yet  struts  around  the  place 
Thinking  the  mask  gives  him  a  certain  grace. 
{Phidias  wearily  rises  and  stretches  himself,  the 
jailer  meanwhile  curiously  observing  him.) 

Phidias   {abruptly).     Slave,  thou   art  childish, 
many  a  name  like  this 
Links  close  to  art,  for  its  own  ego-bliss, 
To  have  possession,  be  the  master,  who 
Owns,  keeps,  controls,  the  work  we  artists  do. 
Pericles  views  the  height  of  Athens'  power, 
Pomp  of  Acropolis,  where  every  hour 
In  golden,  crimson,  blue,  and  creamy  dye 
Ecstatic  marble  forms  sing  to  the  sky, 


PHIDIAS  103 

And  hears  them  sing!     (This  for  his  kingly 

wage :) 
"Nikomen,  Athens,  Pericles,  Golden  Age!" 

Jailer  (looking  at  the  prisoner  with  heavy  curi- 
osity). And  what,  by  Hades,  is  the  thing 
they  sing? 

Phidias   (turns  impulsively  to  answer;    then  a 
fierce  reticence  makes  him  draw  himself  up 
and  turn  away).     Torture  me  not  with  thy 
coarse  questioning; 
My  sorrowing  answers,  for  the  ribaldries 
Of  bath  or  games:  "Thus  spluttered  Phidias, 
Maddened  at  being  walled  up."     So  the  crass 
Idling  crowd,  jostling  in  brainless  mass, 
Gapes,  sneers,  and  marvels,  at  my  grim  defeat; 
Mud  covers  stately  names  where  rascals  meet. 

Jailer   (with    offended    dignity).     Well,   then, 
good-night.     I  leave  thee  to  thy  prayers. 
No  friends,  no  patron,  for  thy  artist-wares, 
Unless,  indeed   (grinning   back  of  his  hand) 
Zeus  showers  thee  with  gold 
Like  Danae. 

Phidias   (steadily  and  reverently).    Yea,   most 
mighty  Zeus  can  hold 
Me  to  my  service,  to  that  Ageless  Thing 
Higher  than  he,  called  Beauty. 


104  PHIDIAS 

(He  breaks  off  suddenly,  goes  eagerly  to  the  now 
departing  jailer,  saying  authoritatively). 

Fellow,  bring 
Here  to  my  cell,  some  wax,  a  tool  or  two, 
Some  clay,  a  lump,  stuck  in  thy  cap  will  do — 
A  hand's  length  of  the  white,  Pentelic  stone, 
From  where  it  sleeps  within  the  mountain, 

grown 
Pregnant  by  streams  and  flowers,  for  some 

birth 
Of  winged  dream,  out  of  hypnotic  earth. 

Jailer  (backing  mockingly  away,  mimics  coarsely). 
A  jewel,  a  star,  a  little  bit  of  wax! 
Some  tiny  thing  this  mighty  genius  lacks ! 
That  pearl,  perchance,  Aspasia's  bosom  decks, 
Or  blood-red  stones  hung  round  Hetairae-necks ! 

Phidias  (beseechingly).     Only  some  clay,  man, 

in  the  dark  my  touch 
Will  fashion  thee  a  goddess-image,  such 
As  still  they  place  in  niches,  who  obey 
"Sea-wards,  oh!  Mystae,"  on  Eleusis-Way. 
I'll  mould  thee  woman's  hand,  or  horse's  head, 
A  dreaming  faun,  Marsyas  as  he  bled; 
A  babe's  round,  dimpled,  saucy  little  back; 
A  vine-wreathed  satyr,  with  his  grape-filled 

sack. 
Jailer  (pompously  drawing  aloof) .    By  Dionysus ! 

that  were  illy  done. 


PHIDIAS  105 

Artist  is  one  thing.     State  another.     Shun 
Thee  and  punish  thee,  doth  Will  of  State, 
Who  art  no  artist  more,  but  he  who  late 
Sculptor  to  Pericles,  now  is  a  knave, 
Who  sits  and  twists  his  thumbs  in  prison- 
cave! 
{The  Jailer  finishes  by  an  insulting  gesture  and, 
departs.     Phidias  going   to  the  heavy  door 
listens  to  his  retreating  footsteps.     He  draws 
a  long  sigh  and,  standing  with  his  back  to  the 
door,  looks  up  at  the  patch  of  blue  sky,  in 
silence.     At  last  he  speaks.) 
Thus  they  leave  Phidias,  worker  in  the  bronze, 
Breather  of  life !  breaker  of  chisel-bonds ! 
He  is,  they  think,  a  man,  a  common  thing — 
All  yellow,  freckled,  thin-blooded;  they  wring 
His  soul,  because  of  policies. 
Make  him  a  sacrifice  to  fallacies; 
"Drop  him,"  they  say,  in  any  dungeon  now; 
"Gods,  grant  in  time  his  traitor's  neck  shall 

bow 
To  death,  for  that  he  trifled  with  the  State ! 
Strike  his  face  from  the  shield  where  he  dared 

mate 
That  face  with  Pericles,"— Oh!  lofty  Hill 
High  Sacred  Rock,  where  sun-bathed  columns 

thrill; 
Proud  statue-gleaming,  gold  Acropolis; 
Dreamed  I  so  high,  to  fall  as  low  as — this? 
Athens,  I  made  thee  out  of  my  heart's  blood; 


106  PHIDIAS 

Rising  by  ages,  from  Time's  'whelming  flood. 
Deucalion-fashion,  soar  my  stones  that  sing 
The  beauty  of  this  age's  visioning. 
Out  of  Iktinos'  soul  the  Parthenon  grew — 
Those  glorious  Doric  shafts,  that  taper  through 
The  blaze  of  morn  or  eve.     Athena's  shrine, 
Lodging  her  ivory  maidenhood,  is  mine! 
'Twas  I  who  gave  the  Lemnian  her  life, 
Knew  god-like  action  whether  peace  or  strife. 
Knew  how  a  god  would  stand,  breathe,  smile,  or 

frown, 
And  by  that  knowledge,  deities'  renown, 
I  was  a  god-creator.     Yet  I  lie 
Here  in  befouled  darkness,  with  the  sky 
Still  burning  blue  upon  the  mountain  tops 
Surrounding  Athens;  where  the  Sun-God  stops 
Of  evening,  all  his  golden  fingers  laid 
On  marble  chords  of  rhythmic  colonnade, 
And   plays    so    strange,    so    Delphic-high    a 

strain, 
That  hopes  ethereal  fill  men's  hearts  again. 
Oh !     Athens,  marble  glory,  is  it  naught 
Phidias  lived,  and  dreamed,  and  planned,  and 

taught? 
(In  his  agony  the  Sculptor  buries  his  head  in  his 
hands.  There  is  a  long  silence,  suddenly 
broken  by  the  alighting  of  a  Cricket  upon  the 
small  grated  window;  the  Cricket  keeps  up  a 
steady  trilling  and  is  not  at  first  noticed  by 
the  Sculptor.) 


PHIDIAS  107 

THE   CRICKET 

Greet,  greet,  greet, 
Pan  with  hymning  sweet. 
Wine  and  corn  are  here, 
Grapes  and  honey  clear; 
Olives,  purple-black, 
Burst  from  tawny  sack. 
Through  Olympian  night 
Temples  glimmer  white 
Stars  their  tangled  vines 
Wreathe  around  the  shrines. 
Shepherds  all  alone 
Under  mountain  tree, 
By  the  midnight  sea, 
Shall  pipe  songs  of  thee 
Singer  in  the  stone ! 

(Phidias  listening  intently,  passes  his  hand  over 
his  eyes,  creeps  nearer  under    the   grating, 
straining  his  gaze  upward.) 
Prometheus!  but  I  think  this  minstrel  wrings 
Wise  melody  from  gauzy  zither-wings, 
A  healing  balm,  like  to  the  lustral  wave 
At  Delphi,  comes  my  broken  soul  to  lave. 
For,  as  he  perches  with  his  roundelay, 
Methinks  he  counsels  me ;  not  for  to-day 
Only  is  artist-pride  and  feverish  bliss — 
Perchance  my  spirit  still  may  suffer  this 
Infamy,  yet  go  singing  down  the  years! 


108  PHIDIAS 

(The  Sculptor  pauses  doubtfully.     Still  looking 

upward,  he  presses  closer  beneath  the  little 

window.) 
Answer  me,  Cricket,  are  my  stricken  tears, 
My  empty  hands,  proof  of  a  thing  to  be, 
That  I  dreamed  true?     If  Beauty  nourished 

me, 
Mothered  and  saved;  shall  I  in  ages  more 
Stand  firm  and  proud,  telling  what  guise  she 

wore 
These  days?    For  with  young  Myron  I  would 

hold 
There  is  a  law  of  Beauty,  which,  controlled 
By  men's  stern  truth,  becomes  a  sacred  thing, 
Expanded  from  our  holy  cherishing. 
It  is  not  static,  cold,  but  lives  and  grows 
Out  of  the  All  of  Life,  the  artist  knows. 

(The  Cricket  after  another  silence,  again  chirps. 
This  time  the  rythm  is  feebler  and  grows  fainter 
and  fainter,  as  the  Sculptor,  face  upwrrds, 
eagerly  listens.) 

THE  CRICKET 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet, 
Praise  is  full  and  meet; 
O'er  the  architrave, 
Beautiful  and  brave, 
Strong  and  good  and  fair, 
Poise  in  hallowed  air. 


PHIDIAS  109 

In  the  violet  clime, 
In  the  winter  rime, 
On  the  poppied  steep, 
In  the  passes  deep, 
All  the  temples  know 
Paths  that  Greece  shall  go 
Toward  posterities 
Far  beyond  the  seas ! 
Far  as  man  is  known, 
Thou  shalt  speak  to  men 
Far  beyond  thy  ken, 
Beyond  tongue  or  pen, 
Singer  in  the  stone ! 

(Phidias  at  the  close  of  the  lilt  lifts  both  arms 
appealingly.     The  Cricket  is  silent  a  mo- 
ment.) 
Phidias.    Hist! — the  green    minstrel,    god-of- 
little-things, 
Thinketh  perchance  he  strums  his  lyric  wings 
On  dark  Hymettus,  where  bees  sip  so  long, 
They  lose  their  way  in  all  the  flower  throng, 
And  many  a  little  waxy  dot  of  fuzz 
Is   caught   in   honey-prison.     {Whimsically.) 

Thou  dost  buzz 
Cricket,  as  loud  as  I,  encased 
In  this  hard  prison,  bitter  to  my  taste. 

(The  Cricket  after  a  long  pause  trills  for  the 
last  time.) 


no  PHIDIAS 

Fleet,  fleet,  fleet, 

The  ways  of  fame  are  sweet. 

A  marble  head  of  dreams 

Conquers  the  world,  meseems. 

Beautiful  vases  tell 

How  happy  peoples  dwell. 

Beautiful  bodies  speak 

New  message  to  the  weak. 

Greece  adown  the  years 

Is  the  song  of  Seers. 

Kora  still  intones 

Nike  still  responds: 

"Wielder  of  the  wands." 

"  Worker  in  the  Bronze." 

"Singer  in  the  Stones." 

Sculptor  {suddenly  and  rapturously).    Xaire! 

thou  little  herald,  Xaire !  thou 
Hast  cheered  me,  saved  me !    See  my  courage 

now! 
What  foul,  damp  cell  can  ever  hold  me  here? 
What  slander  stain  my  work  of  yester-year? 
Upon  the  Hill  my  glowing  children  call 
To  the  unborn  of  Artists;  to  the  All, 
Great  Fusion  of  the  races,  who 
Shall  yet  unite,  some  holy  thing  to  do, 
Before  this  strange  world  on  its  journey  far 
In  trackless  space  shall  move  an  empty  star. 
For  portico  and  frieze  and  vase  and  fane. 
Fountain  and  stele,  that  our  utmost  main 


PHIDIAS  in 

Our  utterest  patience  brought  to  perfect  whole 
Will  cast  strange,  spellful  seed,  and  where  the 

soul 
Of  art  is  known,  its  free,  broad,  ardent  wing, 
"Greece,"   will  be   whispered  like   a  sacred 

thing ! 
(To   the  Cricket.)      Yea,  Yea!  thou  little 

herald,  "wingdd  pipe," 
So  I'll  indite  thee  in  thy  wisdom  ripe — 
Now  will  I  write  my  comrade  young  and  lithe 
Paeonius,  how  I  imprisoned  writhe. 
Yet  for  his  comfort  will  I  softly  tell 
The  cricket  message  to  my  dreary  cell. 
Luck !  that  I  hid  the  chalk  lump  in  my  sleeve ! 
Joy    that    I   have    the    parchment!    Who'll 

believe 
That  this  is  all  he  hath,  who  was  the  friend 
Of  Pericles  brought  to  this  bitter  end ! 
(The  Sculptor  with  the  parchment  on  his  knee, 

busies  himself  in  writing.     Occasionally  he 

pauses  and  reads  aloud  what  he  has  written.) 
Paxmius,  good  comrade,  merry  Greek, 
Walking  Olympian  groves,  watching  the  freak 
Of  scarlet-flowered  pomegranate  vine 
Tasting   the   cool  jugs  filled   with  pine-tree 

wine, 
Fruits  like  warm  bowls  of  amber  nectar  hung 
And  figs  from  branches  o'er  the  streamlets 

flung — 
Read  and  reflect,  and  if  thou  com'st  to  see 


112  PHIDIAS 

Some  supple  scheme  to  set  thy  brother  free, 
Act  on  it  swiftly;  only  be  advised 
Pericles'  day  is  over.     What  he  prized 
Was  proud  display,  but  what  the  people  want 
Is  arms  and  ships  that  they  may  proudly  vaunt. 
(Since    Marathon  no  Greek    knows  how  to 

smile 
Passing  the  Soros'  valiant  hero-pile, 
And  still  they  say  in  Sparta,  athletes  wait 
To  teach  barbarians  how  Greece  is  great.) 
I,  the  poor  Sculptor,  lived  too  near  the  throne, 
Therefore,  I  lie  now  on  the  dungeon  stone! 
(Phidias's  gaze  wanders,  he  becomes  absorbed, 

intense,  then  once  more  he  applies    himself 

to  the  letter.) 
Last  summer,  passing  Sunion,  my  sail 
Red-burning  down  the  stormy  silver  trail 
O'er  clouded  blue,  I  humbly  turned  my  sight 
Up  to  that  white  fane,  on  the  bronz&d  height, 
All  its  upspringing  columns  touched  with  sun 
As  the  slow  golden  clouds  walked  high  upon 
Wave  buttressed  paths,  to  purple  Cyclades 
Those  mystic  islands  of  Saronic  seas. 
And  as  the  molten  sapphire  round  me  sprayed 
O'er  the  eye-painted  prow,  I  humbly  prayed 
Poseidon,  that  Piraeus  I  might  gain; 
Offered  no  cock,  no  vase,  oil  to  contain, 
But  vowed  a  frieze  from  my   young  pupil's 

skill, 
New,  daring  sculpture  for  the  Sea-God's  Hill 


PHIDIAS  113 

In  Parian  marble,  calm  and  haughty  white, 
To  gleam  for  sailors  passing  in  the  night. 
How  I  was  timid  then !  who  after  dared 
Dispute  with  Pericles,  and  proudly  shared 
His  vast  ambitions  for  that  golden  realm — 
That  Athens,  which  the  vulgar  overwhelm. 
That  I  did  promise,  wilt  thou  execute? 
So  will  these  singing  stones,  out  of  the  mute 
Parian  marble,  form  immortal  choir 
Chanting  "Poseidon"  to  the  ocean's  lyre. 
(Phidias  pauses  once  more.     He  draws  a  long 

sigh,  then  continues  writing.) 
Well,  brother-artist,  here  I  agonized, 
Until  a  cricket,  by  great  Zeus  apprised, 
Perched  on  the  window-bar  and  chirped    a 

thing 
Wise  as  Athena,  took  away  the  sting 
Of  the  world's  serpent-sayings.       Friend,    I 

give 
Faith  to  the  cricket  message  while  I  live. 
(The  Sculptor,  head  in  hands   ponders  deeply 

then  again  resumes  writing.) 
He  trilled,  Paeonius,  a  theme  like  this : 
What  we  do  lives,  though  after  all  the  bliss 
Of  our  own  living,  must  our  bodies  pass ! 
Hast    ever    caught    the    perfume    of    sweet 

grass 
Dying  beneath  the  sickle  ?     Our  breath  goes 
Thus  to  the  gods  indifferent,  'mid  the  snows 
High  on  Parnassos'  or  Kiona's  crest, 
s 


114  PHIDIAS 

Where  mountain   after  mountain  heaves  a 

breast, 
Black,  billow-deep,  sky-ranging,  in  a  chain 
Tumultuously,  serene  around  the  plain. 
But  what  we  make  of  beauty  keeps  its  power 
Down  the  long  years,  from  the  conception's 

hour. 
For  mark  ye,  lad,  I  never  sensed  my  work, 
But  did  it  all  unconscious;  now  in  murk, 
In  prison  black,  I  see  it  flying  forth, 
The  strong  wings  of  my  friezes !     All  the  worth 
Of  Laurion  silver  in  Colossi  paid 
And  proud  Athena,  ivory  o'er  laid. 
Gold-sandalled,  springing,  mellow-marble  feet, 
Olive-crowned  heads  in  pensive  bending,  sweet 
Backs,  limbs,  and  bosoms!     Noble  eye  and 

tress, 
Caught  in  the  dream  of  their  own  loveliness — 
I  see  it  all,  so  calm!     "Nothing  too  much," 
Tunics  in  solemn  folds,  majesty  such 
As  comes  with  purity ;  things  strong  and  free ; 
White  to  the  sky  and  naked  to  the  sea. 
Women  and  men  that  move  adown  the  days 
Out  of  the  forest  deep,  through  shimmering 

maize, 
In  fructifying  suns,  in  cooling  dews, — 
All  tranquil,  noble,  filled  with  God,  or  Muse 
Of  deathless  Greece. — Yea,  all  my  strife, 
My  will,  my  soul,  was  this  portrayal — Life! 
{Moved  by  what  he  has  written,  the  Sculptor  gets 


PHIDIAS  115 

to  his  feet  and  paces  feverishly  his  narrow 

cell.      He  goes  on  writing  as  he  walks  and 

reading  aloud.) 
I  now  see  by  prophetic  cricket-voice 
That  Life  is  deathless,  that  my  works  rejoice 
For  all  rejoicing.     Brother  mine 
We  carve  for  worlds  to  come.       Beyond  the 

line 
Of  horizons,  untravelled,  rise  the  lands 
Hungry  of  spirit,  waiting  at  our  hands 
Bread  of  True  Vision.     Yea,  where  rusty  wars, 
Hot    blood    of    nation-struggle,    stain    these 

shores, 
Women  and  men  shall  bleed  with  sacrifice 
To  a  dead  god,  called  Progress,  and  the  Vice 
Of  chance- worship,  on  sickly,  pampered  knees 
And  counting  gold  in  languors  of  disease. 
Can'st  picture  these,  coming  to  look  upon 
My  glorious  horsemen  of  the  Parthenon? 
Seeing  your  Nikes  tread  triumphant  air? 
Our  marble  dreams  forever  beauty-clean 
And  dark  heroic  bronzes  stained  with  green, 
By  fire  and  sword  and  water  all  unspoiled, 
Their  perfect  limbs'  clear  candor  unassoiled? 
Mark  ye,  those  stranger  eyes  shall  take   and 

take, 
Still  the  thirst  grow  and  still  the  joy  to  slake 
From  Old-World  beauty.      Till  we  sculptors 

stand 
Supreme  World-life  within  our  pulseless  hand ! 


16  PHIDIAS 

Think,  lad,  when  father's  little  ones  shall  tell 
How   Greeks   saw,  felt,  and  struggled,  con- 
quered, fell! 
Fear  not,  Paeonius,  our  spirits  win 
Out  of  this  age  to  call  all  ages  kin. 
(Phidias,  sighing  as  one  relieved  of  a  burden, 

pauses    awhile,    then    writes    a    few    more 

lines.) 
Smile    not    upon   this,   friend — All    fancy — 

Yea! 
But,  by  the  Etruscans,  gone  but  yesterday 
To  Italy,  and  now  established  there; 
By  Dorians,  building  temples  by  the  fair 
Purple  Tyrennian,  so  I  think 
Greek  soul  o'erflows,  as  over  fountain-brink, 
And  that  we  circle  out  and  out,  our  creed 
Begetting  world-dream  for  an  unborn  breed, 
Ardent  posterities! — Thus  do  I  then 
Bid  now  farewell  to  my  own  race  of  men! 
And  for  a  future  permanence,  new  clime, 
Lift  statues  in  the  peristyles  of  Time 
And  trust  my  message,  where  that  message 

seeks 
Its  own  fulfillment.     Hail  to  the  happy  Greeks 
Hail  to  that  Race;  keen,  wistful,  passionate, 
That  shall  know  Greece,  Athens,  the  gods,  the, 

State! 
{The   paper   hangs   listlessly   in   the   hand   of 

Phidias,  who  sits  in  r every,  lost  to  all  around 

him.) 


PHIDIAS  117 

Jailer  (entering) .    Rise !  thou  infamous  sculptor ! 

A  decree! 
Follow !    Thy  haughty  judges  have  demanded 

thee! 
(Phidias  wearily  rising,  stares  stupidly  at  him, 

then  looks  up  to  the  little  window  where  the 

Cricket  perched  and  makes  a  slight  gesture  of 

salute  and  farewell.) 

Phidias.  "So  be  it." 

(Hastily  aside.)     See  this  coin?     Of  all  good 

fees 
The  best,  with  head  of  high  Themistocles — 
Thine — if  thy  hand  this  simple  scroll  wilt  bear 
To  the  great  sculptor  at  Olympia. 
To  give  to  him  my  farewell  words  and  tears, 
(The   Sculptor  pauses,   looking   unseeingly  at 
the  Jailer  and  adding  softly.)     As  I  pass 
outward — down  the  faithful  years! 


EPILOGUE 

As  children  keep 

Some  spiraled  shell  or  crystal  crusted  stone 
For  wonder  and  for  solace,  when  alone 
They  fall  asleep, 

So  do  I  soft  caress 

And  guard  through  days  of  World-dark  such  a 

charm 
And  cherish  from  indifference  and  harm 
One  loveliness. 

And  every  Grecian  vase 

And  sculptured  fragment  to  my  eyes  doth  mean 
Life,  calm  and  balanced,  simple,  and  serene, 
Transcending  Race! 


118 


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U&>, 


YB  3123? 


ITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


